


Somewhere Only We Know

by Ghrelt



Series: The Old Guard AUs [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Ace Nile, Angst, Autistic Nicky, Body Horror, Booker is a Bi Disaster, Drowning, Eye Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Keane, Keane is Immortal, M/M, Medical Torture, Nobody is Happy About That, Non-Graphic Depictions of Sex (Marked in Chapter Description), Platonic Bed Sharing, Quynh Gets Out of the Water, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, this will have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 72,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25957930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghrelt/pseuds/Ghrelt
Summary: Keane wakes up after the battle at Merrick Labs.  He wakes up.  Nobody's more surprised by that than he is, and none of the Immortals are happy the guy who just captured and imprisoned them is now one of their own.  Whether he turns out to be an ally or an enemy is yet to be decided.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Keane, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: The Old Guard AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884016
Comments: 1552
Kudos: 732





	1. Somewhere to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Oh it's absolutely decided and you'll see early on which way it goes. Please ask questions if you have any. I know this is a strange headcanon to write about. Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> We have a discord! Join us.
> 
> [Old Guard Discord](https://discord.gg/9hXcRu)

The ceiling is grey. Concrete. Bland.

Boring. 

James Duncan Keane blinks up at it, feeling like there’s something he should remember. 

Something important.

No matter. He needs to get up off the floor and he can remember later.

Why is he on the floor.

He turns his head to look around-

No he doesn’t.

He tries to move his head and nothing happens.

_Nothing._

_Happens._

The thought has his pulse pounding in his ears and he sucks in lungfuls of air, one after the other after the other.

It hurts to breathe.

Fuck.

There’s a sound off to his left, but he can’t see. Try as he might, he can’t get his head to move.

Or his fingers.

His feet.

He licks his lips and the sound changes.

It was faint. High pitched. Repetitive. And then it stops. Coalesces into speech.

“You were dead,” it breathes.

 _She_ breathes. Comes into view, standing over him. “I checked your pulse. You weren’t breathing,” she says. “You were dead, like all the rest. I _checked_.” And then something flashes in her eyes. “It couldn’t…”

The doctor straightens. Pulls something from her pocket. Kneels down beside him. And stabs him in the arm with that pen.

She had the grace or sadism to do it on the side his head is turned to so he can see it happen in his periphery.

He still can’t feel it.

“The fuck?” he says and the words come out but his voice sounds like he swallowed a rake.

She pulls the pen out, slipping a plastic bag from her lab coat and dropping it in. Sealing it without ever letting her gaze stray from the wound.

And then she gasps. Smiles. “I don’t know if this is contagious, but it looks like I may get my Nobel yet.”

Before he gets the chance to even think of reacting, she pulls something else from her pocket and jabs him in the neck.

Everything goes black.

…

When he wakes again, he can move, at least. Though not much.

He can feel his legs. His arms. Turn his head.

He huffs out a relieved breath, even as he thrashes against the restraints.

He’s strapped down to a gurney, and he wonders if it’s one of the ones the prisoners were on earlier.

He stares around the room. Metal walls. Numbers on doors, small and large, lined along each wall. The vault, then. Or one of them.

This one’s cold. Cold enough to have his skin covered in goose bumps and he can see them because the only thing he’s wearing is his underwear.

Specimen vault. Fifteenth floor. He’s only gotten glimpses in the past. He doesn’t have the clearance for the diabolical shit he’s recently discovered his boss is into.

Time to put in his resignation.

Long past time. And the man he was hired to protect is dead anyways.

He’ll just consider himself fired, then. Justifiably, really.

Though he doubts even that warrants his treatment now.

Keane’s the prisoner, and he doubts anyone’s coming to rescue him.

Fuck. _Fuck!_

He thrashes harder.

Countless minutes or hours later he sags into the gurney, exhausted from trying in vain to escape and throat raw from screaming himself hoarse.

He wonders how long she’s planning on leaving him alone in here.

…

She wasn’t planning to leave him so long. But the vault is one of the few places the police won’t. _Can’t_. Search. There are so many bodies. So much death. Dr. Kozak doesn’t tell them about the immortals. Who would believe her? Instead she plays the traumatised employee she almost is, giving her statement with a wavering voice and shaking hands.

And then goes back to work.

…

The lights are dim in the room and he’s nearly blinded when the doctor finally joins him, turning on the bright lights and breezing in like he’s her patient, rather than her prisoner.

“Keane,” she says, polite and professional.

“Kozak,” he snarls back. “What the hell are you-

“I can sedate you, but I’d rather not,” she says, too-calm. “The world has lost a visionary. One who it was your job to protect.”

Her silent implication is that it’s his fault.

She’s not really wrong, but Keane’s more inclined to think him a psychopath with money at this point, than a visionary.

He silently adds her to that list when she starts slicing.

“I can’t say I was going to particularly enjoy the pain I put the others through. But for you? For you I’ll make an exception. You could have saved him. But you didn’t.”

She takes skin. Blood. Chunks of muscle and bundles of nerves. When the profanity he hurls at her gets to be too much she calmly lays a sheet of plastic over his nose and mouth and holds them down as he gasps for air that won’t come. As his vision turns fuzzy around the edges and his lungs scream and he slumps unconscious on the table.

And then she holds it for minutes longer until he stops trying to breathe in.

…

The next time he wakes with a strip of fabric in his mouth, tied around the back of his head.

“You’ll co-operate, whether you like it or not,” says the doctor. “Your contribution to humanity will be vast. And you will never leave this room again.”

…

Booker tries to stop the dreams. Prevent them. Does his level best to drink himself to the point of passing out, where there are no dreams. Where he can sleep in peace and not drown himself awake.

But the older dreams are far easier to stifle than the new ones.

When Nile died, it was sharp. Intense. Real. He _felt her die._

Apparently the new dreams cannot be shut out so easily.

So despite drinking well beyond even his normal capacity the night after their escape, he wakes in a cold sweat, still feeling like he’s strapped to a table.

He writes it off as an intense nightmare.

The next one is not so easy.

She calls him Keane.

The room is not the one the four of them found themselves in.

And Booker can _feel his fear._ The despair of knowing there’s no one coming for him. An eternity trapped in a box getting pieces of himself sliced off.

And the good doctor appeared to be slicing bigger and bigger pieces as she went.

After the third dream Booker rolls out of bed and gets himself dressed.

Copley. If anyone can get Booker in or find him a way, it’s him. 

It worked for Nile. Maybe it can work again.

He can’t leave him there. 

The others have left him and part of him wants to hate them for that. For leaving him alone with his despair.

And part of him understands. Because leaving him alone with his despair is not the same as leaving him alone with _her._ A kindness he didn’t earn.

Suddenly abandonment seems like not so harsh a punishment.

At least they dragged his sorry ass out before they left him.

In any case, he can’t go to them. He won’t. He’ll respect their decision, no matter how much it hurts.

They’ll be having their own dreams. But Keane is not someone they’ll want on the team. So that leaves him. Booker. To figure out how to rescue him.

Maybe it’s a selfish thing. Just wanting to not be alone. A fresh start.

Maybe it’s atonement. A chance to do something right. For this man, at least. 

He doubts Joe would see the rescue of the man he killed with extreme prejudice as atonement for anything.

But Booker doubts Keane would see it that way. The doctor took a finger in the last dream.

So he showers. Gets dressed. Loads up his weapons and his laptop, and goes to Copley’s apartment.

The man tries to slam the door in his face. 

“Wait!” he says, sliding his foot in to block the door. Gritting his teeth as pain screams up his leg.

“I think you and I working together is a bad idea. Find another fool.”

“There’s another! A new one, from the fight!”

Copley gives him a look that’s somewhere between incredulous and disappointed. “If you want them to take you so badly you could just turn yourself in.”

“Guy by the name of Keane. The doctor has him strapped to a table in the vault. Just help me get in and I can do the rest. You can forget you ever knew me.”

He’s already been trying to do that, but he gets the feeling Booker won’t leave him alone until he helps. He sighs. “Come in. Have a coffee. It’ll take some time to go over the security protocols.”

The others will not be happy if they find out he’s helping him. Even more so if they knew _what_ he was helping Booker do.

The coffee maker’s about halfway done percolating when there’s another knock on the door. And Booker comes face-to-face with a group he wasn’t supposed to see for a century.

Nile smiles as she sees him. Nicky’s gaze slides away from him, refusing to linger, and his jaw takes a hard set. Joe’s hands fist at his side and pink rises in his cheeks and he looks like he’s about to crack a tooth he’s clenching so hard. 

Andy? Her eyes go luminous and she strides across the room and pulls Booker into a hard hug, cupping the back of his neck. “See, Book?” she whispers as she tries to squeeze him in half. “Faith.”

“You all saw it, then,” Copley says, cutting to the heart of it.

Nile nods. “Yeah. The security guy. Doctor called him Keane. Strapped down like they did with all of you. And he’s doing some pretty nasty shit.”

“He felt like there was no one coming to save him,” says Booker.

“Yeah well, he’s got us,” Nile says.

“I doubt he knows that.”

Nile flashes him a look that says she doubts _Booker_ knows that.

“I’m only helping so I can kill him again,” says Joe.

Andy rolls her eyes. “He can see us. Potentially give away our locations. So we get him out. _Then_ we decide what to do with him.”

“That’s decided, then?” Copley says. “I doubt it would be nearly so easy to just walk in.”

Nile huffs. “Yeah. ‘Easy.’ Let’s just call it that.”

Last time was hardly easy, whatever he may think.

“I’m sure we can come up with something, but it has to be more subtle than just shooting our way in,” says Nicky.

“Disguise as maintenance, get to the fifteenth floor, hope for the best?” says Booker.

They’re halfway through their second cup of coffee when someone starts pounding on the front door.

To a man, they have their weapons in their hands without so much as thinking. Even Copley.

“Get the door,” Andy says. “We’ll cover you.”

They move to flank the hallway, each aiming their gun at the front door while simultaneously ducked just out of sight of whoever it is.

Copley sticks his gun in the back of his pants, pulling his shirt down to cover it. And goes to the door. Takes a deep breath and opens it.

To catch a gasping Keane who stumbles into him, covered in blood.


	2. So Why Don't We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keane doesn't need rescuing. He might have preferred it, but he doesn't need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: medical torture, eye trauma, body horror are all in this chapter

“We could have done so much. This is the breakthrough we spoke of. Dreamed of. But now that dream is gone. Because you failed. You failed and now he’s dead.”

Keane fights against his restraints, bucking and screaming around the gag. First she took her samples. Jabs. Cuts. Slices.

And that hurt.

It really fucking hurt.

But then she took a finger. Put it in a jar and watched dispassionately while he bellowed around the fabric in his mouth. Whimpered. While tears rolled down his cheeks and it took goddamn forever to grow it back. Every second was torture.

After that, an eye.

She waited until he was fully healed before dosing him with a paralytic, narrating as she went. Kozak told him every detail of what she was doing to him. He lay there, utterly helpless, as she reached a metal tool that looked very much like a spoon, down into his eye socket, and scooped it out. 

So much like when he first awoke, but with her voice droning along in his ears. Calm. Soothing, almost. So discordant to what she was _doing._

A little nip of a pair of scissors and she was holding it in her hand.

If it wasn’t for the paralytic he’d have vomited. And might never have stopped.

But after that? After that she took his _hand._

Just. Neatly cut through in swift, even slices. Deeper and deeper.

You’d never know he was screaming, by her reaction. She only had eyes for the short, repetitive motions. And raised it triumphantly, turning it back and forth in her hands, holding it in hers like something precious and rare.

Like she wanted to fucking pet it.

But that shift in focus was all it took.

There was nothing to hold his arm in the restraints anymore and he yanked it free.

Used his gushing, handless arm to grab her, hauling her over him on the gurney and getting her in a chokehold.

She scrabbled against his arm, but he had the advantage with her backwards and unprepared. As her feet slipped on the blood and she lost purchase, giving her no way to lever herself away or slide out of the hold.

Kozak dropped the hand, instead reaching for the bloodied scalpel on the tray. Sending the tray and the other tools clattering loudly to the floor, echoing off the steel walls.

She managed to grasp the scalpel, stabbing it into his forearm.

Not so different from the pen, a lifetime ago.

Except this time he could _feel_ it.

He screamed again, his brain fixating on this little pain rather than the burning nerve endings desperately searching for the part that should be there. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t dare let go, no matter how hard his arm was shaking and how badly he needed to pass out.

Held on as she struggled. As she sagged against his arm. For long, long minutes, until his arm shuddered and the room spun and he couldn’t hold her any longer.

Then he let go all at once, arm spasming in pain and exhaustion.

The doctor slid away from him into a heap on the floor.

He closed his eyes allowing himself a sigh of relief before dealing with the rest of his problems.

Bleeding: nothing he could do for that yet.

Stabbed: he raised his arm and pulled the scalpel out with his teeth, around the gag. Then carefully leaned as far as the restraints would allow, and spat the scalpel at his hand.

His aim was true enough that a couple minutes of careful scrabbling had it in his palm and him cutting away at the restraint at his wrist. Then wiggling out of the one on his forearm. Pinching the release clip on his chest. His thighs. His ankles. And finally, _finally_ pulling the gag down and off.

Breathing free for the first time in… days? Weeks? He can’t be sure, in this cold metal box with no windows.

He rolls off of the gurney, catching himself on his good hand and his knees. Surges to his feet and walks around to face the sadistic doctor. Watches for any sign of life and finds none. Checks her pulse. Still nothing. Slits her throat with the scalpel, not trusting his eyes or his training or anything, really, at this point.

Everything he’s ever known has just been turned on his head.

He palms her keycard and moves for the door.

The thing about these labs is that they lock from the outside, not the inside. The biggest barrier to his escape now is the blood and the lack of clothes.

Also: the hand. He doesn’t think to grab it until the door closes behind him. Shit. _Shit._ The vault has a numeric code and a retinal scanner. Neither of which is something he could bypass on the best of days. 

Today. Is not. One of those best days. He doesn’t even bother trying

Clutching the ruined stump of his arm, he turnsaway, staggering towards this floor’s locker room.

Bandages. Clothes. Get the blood off. Get out.

Combat training is the only thing keeping him going.

The pain is staggering and the blood loss has him seeing double. But he knows he has to get out. Can’t let them find him. Can’t let them find out.

Locker room. He leaves a smear of blood on the door as he goes in. Finds a shirt to wrap around his hand. _Fuck._ Nope. That’s not going to work. He can _feel_ himself trying to heal the fabric into his arm. Shit. He’s just going to have to bleed all over, then. Or. 

He grabs another, carefully wrapping it around the part of his arm that’s still there. Just leaving the edge of it where the arm ends and the bleeding starts. That seems to work somewhat, drawing the dripping blood back into the fabric without blocking the healing.

Keane goes into the bathroom, using paper towel to clean himself up. Taking a moment to stare at his reflection.

He still looks the same. But he has two eyes, even after the right was taken. He’s still here, even though they broke his neck.

How?

_Do they even know?_

Will they even give him a chance to ask.

Or, after what he helped Merrick do, would they lock him in a box somewhere and forget about him.

No matter. They’re his only option. He saw flashes, last time he slept. He could see them. All but the woman. But she’s not immortal anymore, so maybe that’s part of it.

And bubbles. Silent screaming under the water.

Did they put her there.

Punishment for some slight.

Is it worth it, to risk the same.

Fuck.

Clothes.

Clothes first. Then he can figure out the rest.

He. Finds his own. His shirt and pants and boots and his holster and guns, shoved into the bottom of a locker. Fuckit, why wear someone else’s when he can wear his own.

He carefully pulls everything on, discovering that doing up your pants one-handed is a rotten pain in the ass. And the stump, which he ends up having to use to help in the effort. 

The added pressure hurts so bad he nearly passes out.

His wrist is growing new bones.

He vomits at the sight of that. Watching them form slowly, ligaments connecting. This is a sight no one should have to see. Ever. It’s beyond disgusting.

He leaves the shirt unbuttoned over his undershirt. Shrugs into his holster and checks his guns. His wallet’s still in his pocket. His keys.

 _His keys._ All he needs to do is get down to the security garage and he can _drive out._

But what of the evidence he leaves behind?

He can’t leave any evidence behind. Can’t let anyone trace him. Or them, now.

Their secret is his, whether he likes it or not.

He doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it _at all_.

But now it’s his job to cover their tracks. All of their tracks.

He pulls on his boots, leaving the laces undone. Who the fuck has time to tie them one-handed.

Finds a lighter and a ziptie. After much struggling manages to tie the button down after getting it lit. Leaves it burning in a cabinet with the door slightly ajar.

Goes to the other side of the lab. Cuts one of the gas lines with a scalpel, and opens the valve.

Walks over to the elevator, using the doctor’s key card to gain access. Rides the elevator all the way down to the hidden level where his SUV’s parked. Pulls the fire alarm on his way by. Hopefully everyone can get out before the explosion. In any case, that level is thick concrete, above and below. Merrick has to protect their secrets too.

Whatever civilians might be inside, should have time to get out.

He climbs behind the wheel and drives out, secure in the fact there are no cameras here. 

And turns towards Copley’s house. For good or for ill, he’s one of them now.

Time to find out if they feel the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first two chapters at once, then decided to split them. So you get two, quick. I love comments!


	3. Something to Rely On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue plan or no, not everyone's happy to see Keane.

“Helluva rescue,” says Joe. “Good job, team. We can all go home.”

Copley would glare if he wasn’t busy getting bled on.

What is with these people and bleeding on his stuff.

“I need you to help me find them,” Keane gasps.

“Well you’re in luck,” Andy replies. “Long as we’re the ones you’re looking for.”

They’re all still pointing their guns. Copley kind of flinches at the sight. He’s very much in the way of the bullets right now.

“Let’s get you to the kitchen,” says Copley, wanting him at least dripping on a place that’s easy to clean.

Joe and Nicky move backwards, guns trained somewhere between themselves and the two men, not quite pointed. But ready. Andy and Booker move to go make sure no one followed. Or joined. Keane on the way.

And Nile just stands there, staring.

There’s another one.

She watched Joe kill him. Heard the sickening crunch of his neck snapping. Saw him go still.

And there’s an implication behind his rising to join their ranks, that she’d really rather not have to think about. In any case: fuck that noise. She has a choice and it ain’t him.

Copley gets him into a kitchen chair. He grips the table with his remaining hand, knuckles going white and jaw clenching through the pain.

“Do painkillers help?” Copley asks Joe and Nicky.

Nicky nods. “For stuff like this that takes a while, yes. He’ll be healing even slower, because he’s new.”

“I can choke you out,” Joe says hopefully. “Then you can at least be unconscious for some of it.”

Keane glares at him.

“Hey I can do it over and over and over again, too!”

Keane’s dark eyes disappear behind his eyelids as he tries to shut out the room. The group. His plan was to find them.

Good job: them found. 

So now what.

“The one in the water,” he says. “You put her there?”

Joe snarls, letting out a string of rapid-fire almost-unintelligible expletives in at least three different languages.

“No,” says Nicky, putting his gun away, even as Copley pulls the two from Keane’s holsters and takes them to another room. “She was put there by others. The Church. For being a witch. We have tried in vain to find her for hundreds of years.”

Keane flinches away from the sheer enormity of that. Yet latches onto the hope that he’s not about to join in her fate.

Copley returns with a bottle of pills. Shakes a couple into his hand and offers them to Keane. He tosses them back, swallowing them dry.

Nile takes a seat across from him, watching the gruesome display of healing as the bones of his hand grow out like twigs from his wrist, followed by twisted pale rivers. Then pink, hollow at the ends. The red drips from those. There’s thicker pink growing behind it, looking almost like pork meat. And skin growing over that.

It’s fascinatingly repulsive.

And apparently quite painful.

“Looks like we’re clear,” Booker says. “We moved his vehicle into your empty bay, just in case.” He tosses the keys on the counter.

“We were coming to rescue you,” says Nile as Booker takes a seat.

“But it looks like you managed just fine on your own,” Nicky says.

Keane just nods, more focused on the pain than the conversation.

He’d thought re-growing the finger hurt, but that’s nothing compared to this.

“We could leave him,” says Andy, leaning in the doorway. “We won’t dream of each other anymore. He can’t find us.”

Keane is right there. Have they forgotten him, or is this a subtle dismissal. That he’s so unimportant they can talk around him as though he’s inconsequential.

“We should,” says Joe.

Nile sighs. “Shouldn’t we maybe give him a chance before we write him off?”

“He shot me,” Nicky says, voice utterly devoid of inflection. “In the mouth.”

“Blew the back of his head off before he staggered out of the smoke,” Joe said. “I had to-

Nicky pulls him in, hand gripping the back of Joe’s head as he kisses his temple. Neither takes their gaze off the blood-soaked man at the table.

“My job was to bring you back in,” Keane interjects through gritted teeth. “But I shouldn’t have. I didn’t know what they were doing. Until I did. I should have put a stop to it then.”

“But you didn’t,” says Andy. “You fought us and got all your men killed.”

He nods. “Underestimated you. And Merrick.”

“And you pistol-whipped me when I tried to stop you.” Copley, this time. Rubbing the back of his head and the bruise that still throbs. He doesn’t heal like the rest.

“I- I’m sorry. I had a job to do. I did it, without thinking about why.”

And how long has he been doing that? Just the hired muscle. He used to be more. He used to give a shit. When did that stop? When did keeping people. Human beings. In a vault, become what he did?

Had it started becoming what he was?

“And now?” Booker asks, finally piping up.

Keane opens his eyes to meet the Frenchman’s gaze. The man who started all this. He wonders what he thought he was doing. If he intended any of this either.

“I thought about why and I don’t like myself very much right now,” he says honestly.

Andy nods. “Well that’s a start.” She comes in, easing down into a chair with a wince.

Nile glances at her side, seeing it’s not bleeding. She’s still in some pain though; lips pale and her eyes want to linger closed. “There’s a couch in the other room. Why don’t you lay down?” she says.

Andy glances into said room. Sees the blood stains. _Her_ blood stains. “I’d rather not be in that room, thanks.”

Booker looks away.

“We should go,” says Nicky. “They can trace us too easily here.”

Andy nods. “Let’s go. Booker?” She meets his gaze, then looks around at the rest. “He’s part of this. So the exile’s suspended until we figure this out. Alright?” It’s a question, not an order.

Joe nods. “Until we figure this out. Let’s go.”

“Keane can ride with Nicky and Joe. Nile, we’ll take Keane’s vehicle. Booker, you bring up the rear. Make sure we’re not followed.”

Keane does not appear to be given a choice in this. Then again, he’d rather go with them, than remain behind. He nods, and Nile and Booker help him to his feet.

“Why with them?” he asks. Not complaining. Just. Curious.

“They’re most likely to kill you without giving it a second’s thought,” Andy says. “And you can’t permanently damage them.”

Nicky and Joe flash Keane identical _terrifying_ grins. All but daring him to try something.

It’s like being told to sit in a vehicle with that creepy murder doll with the knife from those movies.

Keane needs a drink and a decades-long-nap. He is too old and too in pain for this shit.

Copley stares after them as they breeze out as easily as they breezed in. Sits down at his table, rubbing the back of his head.

He really needs to sell this place. Too many people know where it is.

…

Keane behaves in the car. He really doesn’t want to die or get maimed again today. Joe seems almost disappointed at that, watching from the other side of the back seat with a gun in his hand while the other one drives. No one speaks and Keane falls asleep somewhere around his body growing new fingernails.

It’s dark when he wakes, and he looks around to see a petrol station that looks like a thousand others on this continent. Wants to ask where, but doesn’t bother. They don’t have a lot of incentive to tell him the truth.

Besides, does it even matter?

“Wear this,” Nicky says as he gets back behind the wheel, tossing a hoodie into his lap. “Your shirt is covered in blood. We cannot afford to be so conspicuous.”

His pants are caked in blood too, but they’re black so it’s not all that obvious. Keane peels off both his shirts, dropping them to the floorboards before pulling the new black one over his head. It feels soft against his skin. The first nice thing he’s felt since he woke with a broken neck. He wonders if every day as an immortal feels as long as this one did.

And prays that’s not the case.

…

They stop driving a little after sunrise, at a little run-down house in the middle of nowhere in he’s not even sure which country. All three vehicles line up next to a shed and everyone piles out.

Aside from giving him a good berth of space, the others all but ignore Keane.

As soon as they’re out, Booker climbs back into his car and drives… somewhere. He doesn’t talk to anyone beforehand and nobody seems bothered by his leaving.

The entire crew, including the young one. He didn’t catch her name. Seem to move as a unit. Understand each other without needing to speak.

He hasn’t seen that since the special forces.

Actually, he hasn’t ever seen this. This is the kind of cohesion they try to train you into. It never quite works that way in the real world.

Oh well. He shrugs and follows them in.

He can wax philosophical about their team dynamics after he’s had a shower, something to eat, and a lot of sleep.

Keane makes a beeline for the bathroom and Andy stops him closing the door behind him. “Leave the door open,” she insists. “Privacy’s earned and we don’t trust you.”

“Looking for a show?” he says back, quirking a brow. “You’re hardly my type.”

She flashes him a look that says she’s _everybody’s_ type. And then another that says she’s not interested either.

“Leave it open or we break it down,” she tosses over her shoulder as she walks towards the kitchen.

Fine. He leaves it open. Uses the toilet. Washes his hands. Strips down, kicking his clothes into a corner. Reaches into the shower and turns the water on, waiting for it to warm up.

Nile gets an eyeful she wishes she didn’t on the way by. Makes a face and goes to find whatever room will be hers.

“You’ll get used to it, kid,” Andy says to that expression, waving her into one of the rooms. Nobody who spends any amount of time with Joe and Nicky escapes entirely unscathed. 

“We’ll be bunking together. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Long as you’re not a cuddler,” she says, eyeing the queen-size bed.

“Hardly, and only ever with willing partners,” Andy assures her.

Good enough. She sets her bag down.

Keane comes out in just a towel, holding it in place at his hip. Just in case. He’s not about to walk around naked in front of these people. “Anybody got clean clothes I can wear?”

That’s about the time Booker returns, laden with groceries. Pushes his way through the front door, turns towards the kitchen and-

Freezes, caught on the incredibly unexpected view of their newly minted companion wearing… a towel.

And _nothing else._

Andy pats his shoulder on her way by. “You’re bunking with him,” she says without looking back.

“I think you broke him,” says Nicky over his mug of tea, leaning against the counter.

For some reason nobody moves to help Booker with the groceries.

Except Nile, who goes straight out the door behind him, hoping desperately there’s more in the car. Otherwise she just let the new guy run her out of the house. Sets a bad precedent.

Fortunately for her, there are, in fact, more bags.

Some even have clothes in them.

“Booker, did you buy clothes?” asks Joe with a longsuffering sigh.

“Yeah. They’re in the car,” he says, snapping out of his funk to continue on to the kitchen.

“I got ‘em,” says Nile as she comes through the front door. Walks straight to Keane, handing off the bag.

He takes it with a dip of his head. “Thanks,” he says, turning with his other hand still firmly on the towel and going back into the bathroom. He closes the door nearly all the way before getting dressed.

They’re still getting the groceries put away when Andy’s phone rings. She listens for a moment. “Yeah. I’ll look into it. Thanks.” And hangs up.

“Book. Laptop. Copley says there was an explosion at Merrick labs.”

He abandons the bags on the counter, letting Nicky and Joe finish putting everything away as he puts his laptop on the table, sits down, and starts typing. Pulls up a picture of the tower with smoke pouring out of it and turns it to show the rest. “Looks legit,” he says.

“What looks legit?” asks Keane, striding out of the bathroom in sweat pants and a t-shirt.

Five sets of eyes stare at him from behind that laptop.

“Care to explain?” Andy says, voice deadly soft as she turns to show him the image.

“I needed to cover my tracks.”

The gun is pointed at him before he knows what’s happening, and blue-green eyes flash from behind it. “I could shoot you, tie you up, and put you in the ocean. Bury you alive. There are so many ways I could stop you. You have one chance to explain why you would kill innocent civilians to cover your own ass.”

He puts his hands up, taking a half-step back. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, peering at the screen. Looking for an answer, not an excuse.

Booker slides the laptop back in front of him, reading over it. “Someone apparently pulled the fire alarm before the explosion happened. There’s a lot of property damage. No casualties so far.”

“There will be one,” he says. “I killed the doctor to get away. But it was in the vault so it might take some time to find her.”

“That explosion was your work, I assume.”

“It was.”

“The risk wasn’t worth it,” she replies, holding the gun so hard it’s shaking.

“I put a lighter on the opposite end of the room. Nicked the gas line. And hit the fire alarm as soon as the elevator hit the basement. There was plenty of time to get everyone out. Plus that secret lab level is shielded all to hell.”

“You thought anyone in that building could be acceptable losses.”

“I thought they’d get out and I could cover my, and _your_ tracks. You left a lot of dead bodies in that building.”

“Why should you care about our tracks?” she said, gun still pointed.

“Because they’re mine? Because I’m one of you now?”

“You’re not one of us,” she hissed. “We’re more than just a bunch of people with a shared condition.”

“A couple days of that was more than enough. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. We can’t let them find us.”

“Would you kill to keep our secret.”

Loaded question, and he knows it.

“Depends on the person. Or people. Not civilians, unless they’re like the doctor. Or Merrick. Zealots with nothing close to ethics. Otherwise, no civilians. I’d kill trained combatants. In a heartbeat. But not that. Civilians are off-limits. And thus, the delayed explosion. The fire alarm.”

She takes a breath, and lowers the gun. “Good enough. For now. Have you been introduced?”

“Not directly.”

“No I’ve only met you down the barrel of a gun,” says Nicky, and there’s an edge to the words.

“That’s Nicky,” says Andy. “I’m Andy. Joe,” she nods to him. “Booker you probably know.”

Keane’s smart enough not to nod.

“And Nile. She’s the new guy.”

“Or I was, until you.” She grins. “Guess that makes you the FNG.”

He glowers at her. He didn’t spend years in the special forces for a baby to call him that.

“She’s proven herself. You haven’t,” Andy points out.

Nile successfully stifles the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Barely.

“There are three bedrooms and you don’t get to sleep alone. So you’re bunking with Booker. There is one bed. I don’t give a shit whether one of you sleeps on the floor or whatever. But you’re both sleeping in that room. Understood?”

Booker and Keane eye each other across the table. It’s going to be a long night.

And an interminable afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you may know, I love comments.


	4. I'm Getting Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about being one of these people is easy.

They didn’t exactly buy him pajamas. So boxer briefs and a t-shirt it is.

Keane usually sleeps naked.

Not here though. He’s already enough on their shit list without poking the bear.

The bear being the terrifying non-immortal with the axe.

Booker turns his back to change into a shirt and flannel pants, barely giving him a glance before climbing into the bed.

“You alright with this arrangement?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Booker replies without raising or turning his head. “Get some sleep. I might, without seeing the inside of that vault tonight.”

Shit. He’d forgotten they could see what was happening to him, too.

How much did they see?

Do they even care.

Beyond making sure his basic needs were taken care of, none of them seem to give a shit.

Then again. They were coming to rescue him. That’s why they were with Copley.

They haven’t locked him in a box or shot him or left him somewhere.

Beggars and choosers and all that shit.

He eyes the bed. The floor. “You fine with sharing?”

“Yep, long as you aren’t a cuddler.”

Actually, he is.

After a moment of no response, Booker finally looks over his shoulder. “Seriously? Well don’t. You’ll end up taking an elbow to the nose, or worse.”

Keane holds his hands up. “Won’t be on purpose. Promise.”

“Yeah well if it happens by accident, you asked for the consequences.”

“Understood.” He climbs in, laying with his back to the other man. Pulls the covers up over his shoulder and closes his eyes.

Booker’s snoring in minutes.

It takes a lot longer than that for Keane to fall asleep, no matter how exhausted he is.

Sometime after he turns for the fourth time, sleep finally takes him.

It doesn’t keep him for long.

_The doctor’s standing by the gurney. Leaning over him, her own throat gushing blood. Smiling and talking in those infuriatingly smooth tones as she carves pieces off him. As she cuts a perfect ‘y’ across his chest, humming to herself about autopsies and how much his brain weighs…_

He wakes to hot breath on his face and a weight on his chest.

And the barrel of a gun.

He perhaps should have noticed that first.

Booker’s hair is in his face and he’s breathing hard. His gaze has a sort of faraway look to it and-

The gun disappears. 

Booker moves off him, sweeping his hair back with one hand. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says, half-accusation, half-apology.

Part of him can still feel the blade in his skin. The phantom one in the dream, and the edge that bled him so many times, so recently. He stares up at the ceiling, trying to remind himself where he is. And where he’s _not._

Booker peers down at him. “You’re going to be fine. You’re awake and the doctor’s dead. She can’t hurt you anymore. You killed her, remember?” 

Maybe she’d have done the same to the rest of them. Did she turn to sadism for revenge? Or was that was the fate he’d have doomed them all to if Nile hadn’t come to the rescue?

Can he ever make up for that?

And what is he doing, helping the man who brought them in.

_Merde._

He can’t offload that onto Keane, can he. Because Keane was just doing what he was hired to. What Booker put them up to.

Everything Keane did to the others was Booker’s fault.

He reaches for the man’s hand as Keane stares up at the ceiling, hyperventilating. “You feel that?” he says, wrapping his fingers around Keane’s palm and squeezing. “It’s still here.”

It takes Keane a moment to realise anything’s changed. To feel the warm, calloused skin against his. His breathing slows. His heart stops pounding in his ears.

“Better?” Booker asks, leaving his hand where it is.

“Yeah. How’d you know to do that?”

Booker flashes a soft, sad smile, slipping his hand away. “Sorry about the gun. I tend to assume anything waking me up is trying to kill me.”

What the hell kind of lives do these people live?

“Ever pull the trigger?” he asks, too casually.

“More often than not, actually.”

Shit. Suddenly he’s really glad his brains haven’t made a mess of the bed.

“What woke you up?”

“You were making noises. Thrashing. I don’t usually wake up next to that.”

No kidding.

“Sorry,” Keane says, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

Rising to go get a glass of water.

And maybe a little space.

Booker watches Keane’s retreating back. Drags a hand down over his face and gets up to follow. Andy will have his ass if he lets Keane wander around unchaperoned.

Keane hears the footfalls behind him. Gives no indication of such, ignoring Booker entirely as he grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it at the kitchen sink. Turns to lean a hip on the counter, eyeing him.

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “Andy assigned me to you. So It’s my job to make sure you don’t get into trouble.”

“She said somethig about exile?” he asks over the rim of the cup.

The man huffs out a sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. “I fucked up. Hurt my family. And convinced myself it was worth sacrificing them to get what I thought I needed.” Tired blue eyes meet his across the dim room. “My punishment was to live on my own for a hundred years.”

A hundred. Years.

It’s unfathomable. How _old_ are these people?

“How the fuck old are you?”

It’s the middle of the night and he hasn’t slept well. Tact isn’t a thing he’s capable of right now.

The corner of Booker’s mouth pulls up in the pale light. 

“I’m the youngest, aside from Nile. A little over two hundred years of immortality.”

He just about spits out the water. “What.”

Booker snickers, and his whole face lights up. The weight that seems his constant companion lifts for a moment. “Joe and Nicky found their immortality around the same time as each other. In the same city, even. They’ve been around for nine hundred years. Andy, even longer. A lot longer, actually.”

A millennium. A fucking thousand fucking years. She’s even older than that. “How much longer.”

That smile turns wry. “Not my tale to tell. Ask her. Some day she may even answer.”

Yeah he’s not doing that any time soon. She looks a lot scarier down the barrel of a gun than the man across from him, even in the dead of night waking up from his own living autopsy.

“You really are immortal, then. Or you were. Until her.”

Booker shakes his head. “No. We don’t know why it happens. Why we end up the way we are. Or when it decides to fuck off on us. There was another. He died, long before my time.”

“So someday you just won’t come back.”

“Yeah. That’s why Joe’s so pissed at you. He just found out Andy was dying and then you killed his other half. For far too long, he didn’t know if Nicky was going to come back.”

Shit.

“They killed a lot of my men.”

“Can you blame them?” Booker’s brow spikes, sky-high.

Again: shit. Not really.

“They shouldn’t have had to die. Fuck, that was a shit-show.” The whole thing.

Booker nods. “Yeah. It really was. I’m sorry. I needed- I needed something and I thought Copley and Merrick could give it to me and a lot of people’s lives got royally fucked up because of it.”

“This your way of apologising for my new condition?”

“You’re the only one who gets to decide what meaning, if any, your afterlife will have. I’m just sorry the journey here was such a mess.”

Not much to say to that. Keane finishes his glass of water and heads back to the bedroom. Booker follows.

…

After two more times thrashing and hyperventilating himself awake, Keane gives up.

Booker at least hasn’t pulled a gun on him again.

So he slides out of bed, pulls some pants on, and goes in search of coffee. Booker drags a hand down his face and pulls out his flask. Takes a swig and shambles his way out to the living area in Keane’s wake.

Keane focuses on the task at hand. Finding the grounds. Adding water to the machine. Letting the mundane task purge the memories of getting his neck broken over and over and over again.

He can still hear the sound.

Booker doesn’t join him in the kitchen until the coffee’s brewed and Keane’s pouring two mugs. He nods his thanks, taking his back to the couch without adding anything.

Keane adds cream to his and sits on the opposite end of the couch, staring sightlessly across the room.

The horizon hasn’t even begun to lighten the sky. Exhaustion drags at Keane as he sips, all the nightmares jumbling together in his head. By the time he gets to the bottom of the mug, Booker’s passed out. With a flask in his lap.

Keane makes a face, leaving him to it.

…

Booker wakes to the sound of running water. His gun’s in his hand as he looks around, and he doesn’t even have to think about reaching for it. It’s almost as natural as breathing.

Keane is standing at the stove, apron around his waist. The sound Booker heard is sizzling in a pan.

And something smells delicious.

Also: Booker’s damn lucky he wakes back up before Andy did. She’d have kicked his ass, stab- and bullet-wound be damned, for not watching him. He could have left. Could have attacked any one of them.

Stabbed Andy in her sleep.

Booker gets up to refill his coffee, vowing to not let his guard down again, just as Nicky emerges from his room. He eyes Keane, quirking a brow.

Nicky’s usually the one that cooks. Then again, he doesn’t really do breakfast. If he’s up that early, he needs to be moving. Something to work off the restless energy. Cooking is too quiet. Too calm, for that. Cooking is for evenings, and family. Not for quiet mornings by himself.

He hits the button on the kettle. Quiet mornings are for tea.

Keane nods to him, expertly folding an omelette.

Nicky still maybe wants to kill him a time or two, but he’s willing to accept breakfast bribes for the time being.

Andy is willing to eat the breakfast, but grants no forgiveness for the task. Her side throbs from where Booker shot her and her shoulder aches from where one of Keane’s men stabbed her.

Andromache the Scythian is not one to forgive easily, and certainly not while she’s in pain.

Non-immortality sucks. She’d thought it was immortality or death. This whole living without healing thing is not something she ever considered. 

It’s stupid and painful and she hates it.

Nile and Joe make their way out sometime after Nicky’s finished his tea, and Keane dutifully cooks for each of them without comment.

He sits down to eat the last omelette once he’s fed the rest, wolfing down his plate of eggs with a fresh mug of coffee in one hand.

Nile squints at him across the table as he eats. “If this is some cosmic matchmaker bullshit, I am not here for it. No fuckin’ way. You’re old and I ain’t interested.”

Keane chokes on the mouthful he’d been trying to swallow, and it takes him a while to get a comprehensible response out. “Good. You’re absolutely too young for me, and I’m not interested in women.”

“Well that’s a relief.” She points her fork accusingly at his face. “You hurt my people again, I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

Nicky turns to Joe with a proud smile. “This one’s feisty. I think we should keep her.”

“In any case I don’t want her as an enemy so I think we’re stuck with her.” Joe grins right back, including the woman in question in the joke.

Nile rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

…

After they’re done cleaning up, Andy insists they do some sparring outside.

“Keane, aside from barking orders and getting your people killed, we don’t know what you’re capable of," she says. Even the other immortals wince at that. She’s in rare form this morning. “So who wants first crack at him?”

Keane’s so busy glaring he doesn’t notice Joe pull the gun. Until it’s already aimed and-

Wakes with a screaming headache untold minutes or seconds later. On the ground, watching the clouds trail across the sky.

“Still immortal, huh?” Joe says, glancing down at him. “Pity.” He looks over at Andy. “Can I test it again?”

Keane takes advantage of the distraction, hooking his feet around Joe’s legs and hauling him to the ground next to him.

Joe brings the gun back around and fires again.

Keane wakes this time to arguing. And an even worse headache. 

“-meant to _test_ him. Put him through his paces. Much as _I’d_ like to shoot him a couple dozen times…” Andy glares down at him.

He gets the distinct feeling Andy’s pique is more over the fact _she_ didn’t get to shoot him.

“This isn’t testing?” Joe asks innocently.

“No more guns,” she says. “And no more _killing._ We don’t kill each other. And certainly not for _fun_.”

“You are a lucky man,” an Italian-accented voice says from beyond Keane’s view. “It was going to be my turn next.”

Maybe he’ll just stay here for a while. But he can feel something sticky under his head and he’s having a really hard time not thinking about having his own brains in his hair.

Which he’s entirely unsuccessful at, rolling over onto all fours and vomiting the contents of his stomach next to the contents of his head.

Merrick is an idiot and immortality is _terrible._


	5. Simple Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immortals discuss Booker's exile.

They mostly leave him alone for the rest of the day. Mostly.

That’s three times he’s died at the hands of that man.

Keane doesn’t like him much. All he has to do is see him and he can taste bile. And feel the bits in his hair.

He showered for a long time after Booker gave him a hand up and steered him back to the house. Didn’t step out of the shower until the water was cold on his skin. And then stuffed himself into the corner of the couch and didn’t leave that spot for hours. He can see them coming, from there.

Joe seems content with his double murder, not looking for more. He’s entirely unapologetic, but isn’t glaring daggers at Keane anymore.

He’s glaring them at Booker, and Keane wonders if he’s gotten the bloodlust out of his system or has just shifted targets. These daggers seem a little more… barbed.

For all Nicky seemed to want to get his own shots in, he’s not outwardly hostile. When his gaze falls on Keane, it’s considering. Serene, even.

How does he manage that.

Keane’s seen how savage the man can go. Usually when Joe’s threatened.

There’s a pattern there, and Keane is smart enough to want to never, ever, get between them again.

Andy’s tired, sore, and snapping at any- and everyone when she’s not napping off her injuries or taking more painkillers. Oddly enough she doesn’t seem particularly put out with Keane.

Every time she looks at Booker she ages ten years.

Nile just seems rather done with the lot of them. After ensuring Keane was alright after the vomiting incident, she went for a walk. Alone. Which she announced as she was leaving. Loudly. Obviously to ward off any and all company as she took some space.

Keane always envied big families. He wonders why, now.

They have a _meeting_ when she gets back.

“We need to discuss Booker’s exile,” Andy says after Nile’s changed out of her dusty clothes.

Keane catches the way Booker’s shoulders sag, out of the corner of his eye.

They gather in the kitchen, sitting and standing circling the round wooden table.

“So. We decided. A hundred years. But Keane’s unexpected immortality throws a wrench in the works,” Andy starts.

“Could just exile him too,” Joe says hopefully.

“I want him close until we know more about him,” she says, calmly and firmly.

Joe glares at Booker and Keane, somehow including both even though they’re across the table from one another.

“So here’s how it’s going to go,” she says, ignoring Joe. “Booker, Keane’s your responsibility. He pulls some shit? It’s yours to fix. He’s one of us because of you. Because of what you did. What you tried to do. So the exile didn’t stick. Or not yet. But our new friend here is your problem.”

She looks at Keane now. “None of us particularly like you, and we have good reason for that. But we won’t be killing you again, nor harming you without reason. That’s not what we are.” Nicky nods, behind her, but Keane can’t tell if he’s agreeing with her or trying to offer him some sort of reassurance.

“Don’t give us reason,” she adds, and her gaze is chilling. Like she’s picturing dismembering him and scattering the pieces and then going for a snack.

Keane nods. They’ve been talking over and around him but rarely _to_ him before now. 

“Tell us about yourself,” Nile says.

To a man, every head in the room turns to look at her. “What? We want to know how he is in a fight but not what his first name is? If he’s going to be one of us, shouldn’t we know more than, ‘he used to work for an evil genius’?”

She does have a point.

“He doesn’t have to be one of us,” Joe says darkly. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“But he deserves the chance to try to be,” counters Nicky, sliding his hand into Joe’s.

Joe glares at that hand. Heaves a longsuffering sigh. “Fine,” he says. “But only because I love him more than I dislike _him._ ” He nods to Nicky, then Keane.

“And Book?” Andy says, but she’s talking to Joe.

“I can live with his penance being babysitting duty. For now,” Joe declares, pointedly _not_ looking at the traitor in question.

Now it’s Booker’s turn to sigh.

“We can revisit this later. We _will_ revisit it later,” Andy declares, effectively both ending the conversation, and promising that it’s not finished.

And then she turns to Keane. “So,” she says. “First name?”

“James,” he says.

“Preference?”

“Keane.”

She takes a long sip of coffee. “Tell us about yourself, Keane.”

And of course, just like anyone being interrogated politely, he draws a blank.

“How old are you?” interjects Nile.

“Thirty eight,” he replies.

Yep. Old.

Well, to one of them. To the rest he’s a baby.

“Family? Significant other?” Nicky, asking the important questions.

He shakes his head. “Parents died when I was young. Brother raised me. He passed too, years ago. No long-term partners since I joined the special forces. No point. I wouldn’t put someone through that.”

“Why were you working for that bastard?” This time it’s Joe doing the asking. 

More important questions.

“Until you my job was following him around and making sure rabid fans didn’t get too close. Things turned pretty quickly and instead of reacting, I adapted. I shouldn’t have.”

The worst part is he doesn’t know how long he’d have gone along with it. Keane did some nasty shit in the special forces. But this. This served no purpose but to make his boss _money_. And it got away from him, but how long would he have _let_ it? 

To his death, apparently.

And despite that, they were willing to come for him. Maybe partially to cover their own asses, but they weren’t going to leave him to rot in there.

Fuck. Jacob would be ashamed. He can all but hear his brother’s voice inside his head: _I raised you better than this._

He did.

“A lot of things went sideways,” Booker says quietly. “Nothing about that went the way it was supposed to.”

“And how was it _supposed_ to go?”

Any one of them could have said those words.

But this time, it was Nile.

Booker’s hand slides towards his pocket but he seems to think the better of it, instead splaying his hands on the table. Picks at a spot where the paint is starting to peel. “Copley reached out to me. By that time he was pretty much convinced. Had all that evidence. Pictures. Stories. Information we let fall through the cracks over the years. And an offer.”

“What could he possibly have offered that would entice you to that?” Nicky interjects.

He doesn’t appear to want to retaliate against Booker’s betrayal, but that doesn’t mean he’s not _hurt_ by it.

Joe plasters himself to Nicky’s side and wraps his arm around Nicky’s back. The movement catches Keane’s gaze. An odd look passes over his features and disappears as though it had never happened.

“It’s not what he offered. It’s what he wanted,” Booker says. “At first when I knew he knew, I was going to kill him. Tie it off, just like you said, Boss.”

“And why didn’t you?” Andy replies.

“What he said about his wife. How she died. Slowly. Painfully. And how we could maybe help.” He meets Andy’s gaze. “That was the start. The hope we could do some real, lasting good. Like, maybe this was the reason for all this. For us.”

“We’ve managed to do plenty of good without letting someone dissect us, so far,” Joe hisses.

“Lately, it doesn’t really feel like it,” Booker replies, exhaustion lacing his words.

He has a point, Andy has to concede. She doesn’t say so out loud though.

Keane stands, chair scraping across the floorboards as it slides back. He walks over to the coffee maker. Pours out the last cup and sets it in front of Booker before starting a new pot.

Booker nods thanks and takes a sip, glad for the caffeine and the distraction. The excuse to pause in laying out his betrayal of the only people on the planet who give a shit about him.

“There were supposed to be enough samples from the fake kidnapping,” he says. “Blood and tissue and the like. But he said there was too much contamination. And then Merrick got away from Copley. Wanted more. I thought-

He swallows. “I thought they could take us in, get the samples and then they’d let us go.”

“I don’t know if that’s hope or stupidity talking, but you might want to seriously investigate your motivations,” says Nile, levelling Booker with an entirely unimpressed look, which earns her a grin from Joe.

Weren’t they talking about Keane? Can they be talking about Keane again.

Booker takes another sip. Anything to keep from saying more.

“It was just supposed to be taking a few samples. Then letting us go. In the meantime, I could convince you why.”

Joe’s across the room before anyone else can even process that mess. He has Booker by the throat in the blink of an eye, tipping his chair back so he’s completely at Joe’s mercy. “You could have asked _first_ ,” he hisses, jaw clenched so tight the others can hear his teeth grind.

It’s Nile who steps in. Puts a hand on Joe’s arm. “He failed,” she reminds him. “It was a stupid plan and this idiot’s been desperate and suicidal for how long?” She glances around the room. “Who all here knew. That he’d gotten so bad?”

She gives them a moment to not respond. “No one. That’s not your fault. Depression’s a nasty piece of work. Booker should have told you. Should have asked for help. But _because_ depression’s a nasty piece of work, he probably didn’t know how.”

Joe eases his hold on Booker. Eases him forward until his chair’s back solid on the floor, and steps back away.

“That doesn’t excuse what he did. Nothing does,” Nile points out, still standing next to Booker. “But it fucks with your head. “Makes you look for solutions that are just bigger problems.”

Keane wonders who she lost. And when. There’s something in her eyes that says this is more than just rhetoric. She knows this deeply. Personally.

Booker’s the one who finally breaks the silence, looking up to meet Nile’s gaze. She’s the only one he can bear to look at right now, and his eyes are luminous. “So where does that leave us.”

“It leaves us all with a mess,” Andy says. “With this family broken and bleeding by the wounds you caused. And by the ones you had and we didn’t know to look for.”

Her eyes are luminous too.

“And with two new members: one who’s the reason we can still have this conversation, and the other…” 

They’re all looking at Keane again. He pours his own mug of coffee, drinking it black and scowling at the bitter flavor, unsmoothed by the cream he prefers.

But it gives him something to hide behind, at least.

“The other we don’t know a damn thing about. So. As we’ve already established: part of Booker’s penance is being Keane’s keeper. No more exile, for the time being. And Book? This is another chance for you to make things right. To be a part of us. A chance you wouldn’t have had without…” She trails off, but everyone knows what she’s talking about. “Do us all a favor: don’t blow it.”

…

The rest of the day’s quiet as everyone retreats to their own thoughts and their complicated mess of emotions are left to calm on their own.

Or maybe fester. Who knew, with this much silence. Only time would tell.

Nicky cooks. Joe helps. Well. Joe hovers and ogles and gets threatened with a knife more than once, but it puts a smile on both of their faces and it’s nearly impossible to be mopey around them.

Booker puts in a valiant effort, but ultimately fails. See? Nearly impossible.

They’re a little terrifying.

Correction: A _lot_ terrifying. Keane still has that memory of the body of one of their contractors falling out of that van. Seeing two men, chained to the floor and surrounded by the dead bodies of the rest. Smiling at each other and cracking jokes.

If he’d known what he was up against before then, he’d have run the other way.

One of them has killed him no fewer than three times. He wonders how long that total will hold.

The other seems fine, but Keane gets the impression he’s the kind you have to worry about. Joe will telegraph it. He’ll come at you because he’s angry, and you’ll have earned it. (Keane’s not sure he earned that last one, but he’ll give him the other two. And he maybe earned the last one as well. In any case, he’d rather not earn any more.)

Nicky? He’ll quietly bide his time until the right moment, then quietly slit your throat. And then go bake a cake or some shit.

He makes them supper and somehow, _somehow,_ Keane doesn’t perish that night of food poisoning.

Or anything else, for that matter.

Keane still thinks it’s only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all the comments and conversations I get to have with you guys! Keep 'em coming!


	6. Is this the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping. Paris.

In the morning, Booker asks him the strangest question he’s fielded since rising from the dead.

“Want to go shopping?”

“What?”

“Shopping. You know. For clothes. I didn’t get to grab you much, and it’s all shit quality. If you’re going to be one of us, you’re going to need a _lot_ of clothes.”

It is too early and he is not caffeinated enough for this particular brand of pillow talk.

“Why?”

“Because while our bodies heal the holes, our clothes do not.” Booker flashes a grin in the dim room.

“And so you want to take me shopping.”

“Yeah. You had to leave everything behind. Might as well have something to wear that’s not…” He pointedly does _not_ look at the man next to him.

“This your way of telling me I’m not clothed enough to sleep next to you?”

Booker huffs out a half-snarl. “It’s my way of saying do you want to actually pick out some damn clothes.”

Keane chuckles. “Yes. And for the record: I usually sleep naked. So you’re welcome.”

He rolls off the side of the bed, leaving Booker to gape at his back as he goes to use the washroom.

…

Of course, Nile invites herself along. “If he gets new clothes, so do I. I haven’t been clothes shopping in ages.” She looks down at her jacket. “Plus: evidence seems to show you have excellent taste in clothes. I’m coming.”

“Anyone else want to join?” Booker asks.

Andy shakes her head. She’ll spend today like she’s spent every day since she was shot and stabbed: sleeping. And healing.

Nicky and Joe exchange a look. Both seem relieved at the idea of a day to themselves. “We’re good,” Joe says for both of them.

“Get dressed then. This’ll be an all-day trip.”

Nile doesn’t need to be told twice.

Keane goes off to do the same.

They pile into the car, Booker at the wheel and Nile in the front passenger seat. Leaving Keane to sit in the back.

In a sense, trusting him at theirs. Then again, they both have guns and he does not.

“Things were getting tense,” says Booker over his shoulder as they pull away from the house. “I thought everyone could use a break.”

“Plus: shopping!” says Nile. She hasn’t gotten to replace her wardrobe since she joined them.

“Where are we going?” asks Keane, though he doesn’t care that much. He’ll probably be able to find something passable.

“Paris,” Booker replies mildly, turning to watch as Nile’s mouth falls open.

“Paris. You’re taking me shopping in _Paris_?” Then she scowls and whacks him on the arm. “You were going to take the new guy shopping in _Paris_ and not invite me?”

“You didn’t even give me the chance. Of course you were invited,” he replies. “We’ll hit some department stores first. Get the basics and make Keane here presentable for being in public.”

Keane glowers at the back of his head. “You’re the one who got me what I’m wearing.”

“Yeah from a crap store in a small town. There wasn’t much to choose from.”

“How are we paying for this?” Keane says. He can’t exactly use his bank account, can he. Not when he’s supposed to be dead.

“We have money. Don’t worry about it,” Booker says. 

“This standard operating procedure for new blood?”

Booker barks out a laugh. “The two of you are the first new blood in two hundred years. There is no procedure. Just be glad you didn’t have to pretend to be dead, hanging from a noose and freezing to death for three days while you waited for your killers to fuck off.”

Nile stares at him. “Seriously?”

He nods. “Seriously. The army was running out of food and ill-prepared for winter. I tried to desert. And was executed for it. By hanging.”

“That was your _first_ death?”

“Yep.”

“Shit,” she breathes.

“Oui.”

“How long did it take Andy and the rest to find you?”

“Couple years. I was back living with my family by then. Andy and Joe and Nicky tried to talk me into going with them. I didn’t.”

“Do you regret that?” she asks. She saw the tears in his eyes as he spoke of his family before, across the fire. Even after two hundred years, he still carries so much pain.

“No,” he replies, though his voice comes out hoarse. 

Keane blinks at the back of his head. 

Booker had a family. For some reason that surprises him.

“They came back every couple years to check, and eventually there was no one left for me to stay for.” 

Well. That’s not entirely true. But it was too difficult watching his sons’ children grow up without their fathers. So he left.

“You’ve been with Andy and the rest ever since?” says Nile, prodding.

“Not really. We come together. Run missions. Even live together sometimes. But then we drift away to do our own things for a while. Until last week, I hadn’t seen any of them for a year.”

That surprises him too. He just assumed they were a unit, all the time.

It’s been a while since Keane’s been to Paris. And blatantly obvious that Nile’s never been, as soon as the city comes in view. 

Her eyes are wide and she’s trying to take it all in and chattering a mile a minute and she just about dies on the spot when she sees it: the Louvre.

She bounces in her seat, all but shrieking like a little girl.

Very un-Nile-like, yet somehow a very Nile reaction.

Her enthusiasm is contagious and Booker’s smile is warm and bright and…

_Damn. That’s a helluva good look for him._

Keane leans forward in the back, entirely unnoticed by the other two. Caught on that expression.

“You didn’t think I’d take you to Paris without bringing you here, did I?”

“You said ‘shopping’, before you said ‘Paris. I got distracted.”

Booker’s still smiling after her as they climb out and head for the museum, Nile well in the lead.

“So,” says Keane as he falls in step with Booker behind her. “You trying to teach me some culture under the guise of shopping?”

“Well,” Booker replies. “You are English. So you could definitely use it.”

Now it’s Keane’s turn to grin. “You’ve had time to collect it, Old Man.”

Booker flashes him a look that says Keane will pay for that later.

…

Nile all but bounces between the paintings and statues within, gushing her own knowledge or reading the descriptions or unabashedly asking Booker a thousand questions that all run together. 

She wants to know _everything._

He can answer more than a few, having been to the Louvre more than a few times. Not to mention as a career counterfeiter, he knows more than a few things about art.

They’re headed up the stairs, and it’s only Booker standing behind her that keeps Nile from being shoved from behind by the crowd around them. 

As she stops, enraptured.

Utterly enthralled by the statue.

It’s massive, a winged woman towering up out of the prow of a ship carved from stone. Her wings stretched backwards behind her. Dress flowing around her legs.

Arms and head missing, broken off by history. Yet she has a strength, a presence that is not diminished by the loss.

And she has Nile frozen there, foot resting on a stair forgotten mid-step as she stares.

Victory is an apt name, for the statue embodies it. And Nile cannot tear her gaze from it.

Booker’s seen it plenty and while Keane is duly impressed, he’s more interested in letting Nile have her moment. The two men silently encourage the crowd to flow around her until she finally takes a deep breath, taking that next step as she rejoins the crowd as it flows up and past the statue.

Keane contentedly trails along behind her, side-by-side with Booker. He enjoys the paintings. The sculptures. Even though he doesn’t know much about them. Nile has a depth of knowledge here that Keane has never aspired to.

He gets more enjoyment from her reactions than the art itself.

They let her take her time as she takes it in, but even she reaches a point where she’s hungry and knows they have other things to do.

She does take a few minutes in the gift shop before they leave the museum, picking out gifts for Andy and Nicky and Joe. “Okay, what next?” she asks, bag of loot dangling from one hand.

“We stow that in the car and walk through the park to the Champs-Élysées. Grab some crepes and then do some boutique shopping.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Lead the way.”

Keane’s not sure he and Booker would have found much to talk about without Nile there. With her, there’s no awkward silences and her enthusiasm is all but contagious.

First stop: food. They grab crepes from a street vendor, eating as they wander.

Next: jeans. Or regular-ish clothes. As much as Booker doesn’t care about how much money they spend, they’re too prone to wrecking their clothes to go over-the-top with the basics. That being said, Keane looks _nice_ in fitted jeans and a t-shirt.

Or so Nile says. “Hey just because I’m not interested, doesn’t mean I can’t _look._ And hey. You look good. So sue me.” She shrugs.

As good as he looks in the jeans, the leather jacket they find in one of the more expensive shops should be illegal. Something about the way it fits his shoulders. How it sits across his chest when it’s unzipped…

Booker is too fucking sober for this. He is absolutely not ogling the new guy.

He’s never ogled a man a day in his life. Why the hell would he start now?

But Nile’s relentless. Every store they go into, she stuffs Keane in a fitting room and goes to fetch a pile of clothes she wants him to play dress-up with.

He indulges her, having at least as much fun as she is.

Keane’s well aware of how good the clothes look on him, thank you very much. He’s worked hard for this body, and he’s never had any difficulty finding willing partners.

And then reciprocates, helping her pick out some nice shirts that cost far too much money for what they’re worth. But she’s gorgeous in them and he won’t let her _not_ get them.

Booker’s all to happy to shell out the money. 

There’s a looseness to him Keane hasn’t seen before. He likes it.

He spends the most on jackets for Nile and Keane, and the boots for both of them.

The _boots._ They’re leather. Gorgeous. Handmade. Soft and strong and they cost more than Nile’s first car. 

But hoo, boy. Those boots. The kind of quality that lasts decades, not years. Nile declares they feel like butter on her feet and wears hers out of the store.

But Booker realises what heathens he’s with when they pass the athletic clothing store on their way back. Where Keane and Nile stare in the window, slowly turn to meet each other’s gazes, nod, and look back in the window.

Because while jeans and t-shirts and hoodies and boots and gorgeous jackets are important, _workout clothes are vital._

Booker learns more about technical fabrics and fit for athletic trainers than he ever wanted to know.

By that time the sun is dipping towards the horizon and it’s time to head home. They stop to consolidate their purchases into a duffel bag and backpack for each, and head back towards the car.

“I had fun,” Nile says as they load back into the car. “Thanks for bringing me.”

Booker flashes another of his rare-before-today, genuine grins. “It was my pleasure.”

Strangely enough, Keane’s too. He had fun.

…

Joe is incensed that they took Nile to the Louvre without him. 

“Did you really think I’d take her to Paris and _not_ let her see the Louvre?”

“You never said anything about Paris,” he pouts.

Nile laughs as carries her bags to her room to unpack and re-pack them.

She got him a sketch pad.

Nicky: a shirt with a painting on it that looks a _lot_ like himself. She has her suspicions.

Andy gets a little metal keychain: a tiny replica of the headless winged Nike standing on the bow of a ship. Her gaze goes faraway as her thumb runs over the edges of the wings. “Thank you,” she says, dragging Nile into a hug.

Nile fights it for half a surprised second. Then wraps her arms around the woman, holding on tight.

Joe nods his approval. Then snickers at Nicky’s shirt.

…

Keane, likewise, goes back to his shared bedroom to take everything they bought back out, pull tags off, and repack in a way that he can actually find his clothes later.

Booker leans in the doorway to watch.

“Thanks,” says Keane, meeting his gaze. “I think I needed today.”

Booker glances over his shoulder and a soft expression comes over him. One corner of his lips quirks up. “Yeah. Me, too.”

It’s the most content Keane’s seen the man yet.

A good look on him.

He wants to see more of that look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the four of you who read that other fic, yes I've written something like this before. If Paris was even reasonably accurate, all credit goes to Drake. I've never been, so any details I got wrong are all me.


	7. Earth Beneath My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker has a bad day, but not for reasons you might think.

That night, Keane wears actual shorts with his t-shirt. Booker wears what Booker always wore.

Something feels different. Strange. Booker’s feeling… off, and had no idea why. Fortunately the long day takes its toll and, ignoring his mood, pulls him under.

This time it’s Booker who wakes gasping. And Keane who goes scrambling for a weapon. He doesn’t find one, but that’s besides the point.

He jerks upright, heart pounding in his ears and staring at the door.

But no one seems to be coming in. Aside from the hard breathing of the man next to him, nothing seems to be amiss.

He turns to find that Booker, at least, has a weapon.

And it’s not aimed at him.

Improvement.

“You okay?” Keane asks.

Booker sighs, setting his gun on the bedside table and dragging a hand down his face. “Nightmare,” he says.

Keane gathered that, yes.

“Glass of water?”

Booker nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He gets up, pushing the door open and scanning the house as he pads his way to the kitchen.

Andy just about gives him a heart attack, sitting at the table in the dark.

He slaps a hand over his chest like it’s the only thing preventing his heart from leaping out.

A sly smile pulls at her lips. “Morning.”

“Pretty sure it’s the middle of the night,” he counters, his voice recovering faster than his chest. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She doesn’t reply, but something about her posture says it’s not a new problem.

“Coffee?” he asks as he fills a glass at the tap.

A moment’s silence greets him before she replies. “Could you put the kettle on?”

He does, nodding to her as he turns to take the glass back to his room.

Booker’s sitting up, looking frazzled as Keane hands off the glass and… disappears back out of the room. 

Booker takes his time with the glass of water, staring at the wall and trying to purge the memory of the cold eating into him. The noose around his neck. The taste of hot blood and feeling the crow die in his hands.

The dream was almost like reliving the memory.

It takes him a while to realise Keane hasn’t returned. Booker sighs and gets up to go look for him. He is responsible for the man, after all.

Keane’s carrying two mugs to the table. Setting one down in front of Andy and taking the spot across the table from her.

Booker meets Andy’s gaze past the back of Keane’s head. She nods, silently telling him she’s got this. He fades back into the room to try and get some sleep.

But leaves the door open, just in case.

“This is a common thing for you,” Keane says over his mug of tea.

She takes a sip instead of replying, and the lines of her body ease as she takes a long slow breath of the aroma.

“Was it strange,” she finally says. “Waking up?”

He nods. “I had a broken neck. It wasn’t healed when I woke.”

“Is that how she managed to get you?”

Keane held his own against Joe and Nicky. For a while, at least. The doctor shouldn’t have been able to subdue him.

“Yeah. I was alert but I couldn’t move. She said she’d checked my pulse. That I was dead before. Stabbed me with a pen to test it.”

Andy silently chuckles at her mug. “Ow.”

“Not really. I couldn’t feel it. Scared the shit out of me.”

One of her brows quirks up. “I’m not going to continue to ride this, but that’s what you get for shooting Nicky.”

“You’re absolutely going to continue to ride this,” he counters. “I’ll still be hearing about it decades from now.”

A very unladylike snort escapes her lips. “You may have a point.”

“How about you?” he says. “Was it strange? Realising you couldn’t heal?”

“Painful, more than strange. And. A relief.”

Something in her gaze is so, so tired. The weight of centuries lays there. Millennia, maybe? However long, it seems to sit heavy on her shoulders.

In an instant that gaze goes piercing. “Don’t think for one instant that means I’m courting an early death,” she warns, giving the impression of showing her teeth, though her lips are closed. 

It’s terrifying.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, refusing to rise to meet her silent challenge. “You shouldn’t have been able to get out of the lab, never mind fight, in the condition you were in.”

She raises her mug in mock toast.

He mirrors the action, idly wondering how many different ways she could kill him just with objects within reach.

Not counting the gun and at _least_ one knife he’d stake a lot of money she has on her person.

These guys don’t fuck around when it comes to their safety. They carry weapons at all times in private. And wherever they can get away with it in public.

The two sip in silence until Keane’s done his tea. He sets his mug in the sink and pads off to his room, leaving Andy to her solace and her silence.

She wordlessly lets him go.

…

The next morning, it’s Keane’s turn to suggest something odd.

“I need to go for a run.”

Booker blinks at him. He’s only alert in the morning if there’s killing involved.

And he only ever runs for the same reason.

No way Andy will let Keane go alone. Booker is going to _have_ to go with him.

“Are you sure? Your healing should maintain your condition from before. Now you don’t even need to run.”

“It’s not just for my physical wellbeing,” Keane replies.

“Pick up tactic?” Booker asks as they get dressed, backs turned and on opposite sides of the bed.

Keane’s response is a low, amused rumble that Booker can almost feel in his stomach.

It’s fucking unnerving as hell.

“Something like that.”

Keane emerges from the room in shorts, a thin t-shirt, and his new athletic trainers.

And Nile’s eyes light up. “Are we going for a run?”

“Dear God in heaven there’s two of them,” Booker mutters from behind Keane.

“That’s the plan. You coming?”

“Hell, yes. Just let me get changed.”

She scurries off.

“Does this mean I don’t have to go?” Booker says, more to the room than to any particular person in it.

“No. Consider it part of your penance,” Nicky says around a bite of toast.

“Jeans are a bad idea,” Keane points out. “Chafing.”

Joe snickers. “Then I recommend jeans.”

Booker casts a glare around the room, encompassing anything and everything, and goes back to his room.

There’s only one thing worse than having to run in the morning: having to run with two people who are goddamn _chipper_ about it.

And having two others who seem to be exceedingly enjoying that fact.

Andy’s nowhere to be found. Booker hopes that means she’s actually getting some sleep.

He comes out in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. 

Booker doesn’t own trainers. Hiking boots, it’ll have to be.

He should have known. He should have known when he saw how excited they were about the workout clothes. And he should have refused to buy them.

“You listen to music when you run?” Nile asks Keane. He shakes his head. “I do,” she continues. “With earbuds. Will you mind?”

“Not at all.” The two stand side-by-side as they fill their water bottles at the kitchen sink.

It’s disgusting. Nobody should be so happy in the morning without caffeine.

Or alcohol. Damn, he could use a drink right now.

Nile and Keane chatter away about pace and distance and other boring running things as the three of them head for the door, Booker trailing dejectedly on in their wake.

Running is for people who’ve done something wrong. Trying to escape.

Which… shit.

Fuck.

He silently curses fate as he yanks his boots on and steps out after them.

The next hour has him questioning his entire existence.

And his species.

And fate.

And yep: chafing is a thing. It’s not really a thing for him, what with the healing. But feeling his skin catching itself and pulling with every labored stride is… not fun. At all.

There’s this thing about running. And runners. They don’t train so they can run without pain. They train so they can run _through_ the pain. And two baby immortals who are accustomed to pushing themselves through that pain can suddenly go a lot faster, for a lot longer, than they could before.

And the bastards are _ecstatic_ about it.

It’s criminal. Obscene. Just plain wrong.

Booker plods along in their wake, sun beating down on his head. Miserable and sweating and barely keeping the other two in sight ahead of him. 

He’s used to fighting through pain. 

Excruciating pain. _Brief_ excruciating pain.

But this? This serves no _purpose._ It’s torture for the sake of torture and he’s not here for it.

Where did their hats come from? The sunglasses?

Why didn’t he think of those.

And why. The _fuck_. Do they _like_ this wretched form of torture.

Keane and Nile are grinning as they step back into the house, loose and relaxed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

“Welcome back,” says Nicky. “Did you kill Booker?”

“Nah,” replies Nile with a sharp grin. “Made him wish he was dead though.”

“Remind me to watch next time,” says Joe. 

Andy sighs. Children. She’s surrounded by children.

And then Booker staggers in, panting. Kicks off his boots by the door and shambles over to the couch, falling face-first onto it.

Nicky’s fiddling with his camera at the table and he raises it to snap a picture of Booker in that position, flopped ungainly with his clothes plastered to him and his ass figuring prominently in the shot.

He hears the click and raises his hand to flip Nicky off.

Nicky snaps a shot of that too.

“What’s for breakfast?” asks Keane as he refills his water bottle.

“Whatever you can find,” says Andy. He’s a grown man, and perfectly capable of cooking for himself. As he’s personally demonstrated.

He shrugs and grabs a box of cereal.

Nile goes off to peel out of her sweaty clothes and take a shower.

Keane’s halfway through that bowl of cereal by the time Booker rolls off the couch and wanders over in search of coffee. “I hate you,” he says as he makes his way past.

Keane grins.

…

Of course Andy decides that a morning run isn’t torture enough.

“We need to see how he handles himself in a fight. _Without_ guns or knives or swords or killing or maiming of any kind,” she says, turning a glare on Joe.

And oddly enough, Nicky.

Nicky blinks innocently back at her.

It’s midafternoon. Booker’s had plenty of time to ‘recover’.

All three have had showers and gotten changed.

“Booker, you’re up,” says Andy.

“Me?” He stares at her, wondering why _him_.

“In light of good behavior he gets to fight someone who’s less inclined to kill him,” she says.

“After this morning?”

“You’ll live,” she says, waving him in.

Keane’s rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles and looking like he’s raring for a fight.

Did Andy put him up to this morning. Was that what the late-night conversation was.

He opens his mouth to-

“No, I did not put him up to either the run or this, Book. Today’s torture evolved organically,” she says, cutting him off.

Fuck.

So she didn’t plan it. She’s just taking advantage. Great.

Well he’s not getting changed. He can fight just fine in jeans and his boots.

Keane’s in comfortable-looking sweatpants and a plain t-shirt.

And he’s taking off his shoes and socks.

Why is he doing that.

The garden is covered in lush green grass. Relatively recently mowed. It’s not exactly a sparring ring but there’s plenty of space.

Nicky and Joe are setting up folding chairs and cracking beers. Very funny.

“Next turn at the dishes says Keane takes him down first,” says Joe.

Nicky nods. “Easy money, my love.” Clinks his can to Joe’s and takes a drink.

“Same rules as always: you stop when the other one taps out, or bones break. Understood?”

Keane’s eyes go wide at that. He swallows. Nods. And moves out into the open, taking a relaxed stance.

Joe and Nicky lean forwards in their chairs.

Nile leans against the house next to Andy, rolling her eyes at the sheer testosterone of it all.

The two men in the center only have eyes for each other.

They circle, Keane’s taking careful, deliberate steps. Feeling the ground through his feet.

Booker shuffles, keeping low and sliding his feet more than lifting them. He lunges forward, more force than grace, grabbing for him.

Keane easily dances backwards and out of reach. 

They reset and circle some more.

Next time it’s Keane’s turn to make the first move.

He ducks in close, grabbing Booker’s shirt to yank him in and sweeping his leg forward to hook Booker’s.

But Booker sees that coming a mile away. Steps in even as Keane tries to pull him off-balance. Borrows the leverage and leans in as he forces Keane under him as they go down.

Booker lands an elbow in his solar plexus and Keane spends the next few seconds relearning how to breathe. Taps out unnecessarily as Booker grins down at him and offers a hand.

“Hey no fair!” Joe exclaims. “You could have kept fighting!”

Keane wince-grins at him like he knows that fact very well.

Nicky chortles. “Extra dish duty for you.”

Keane takes that hand, surging to his feet and patting Booker’s arm in thanks.

“There’s no more bets,” Booker points out. “Might as well put some effort into the next one.”

It seems he’s been found out. Keane’s not above a little pain for spite’s sake. He has to stop himself from winking at Joe as they square up again.

Something tells him winking at Joe is a Bad Idea.

And then Booker’s lunging at him for real, tackling him around the waist and punching him hard in the ribs as he tries to take Keane to the grass again.

Keane braces, feet out behind him. Booker’s not taking him down so easily this time around.

He can’t see Booker’s grin as he moves his hand. Plants it high up the inside of Keane’s thigh _close to places_. And pinches. Really fucking hard.

Keane grunts in pain, throwing an elbow at Booker’s head as Booker ducks down low, ignoring the blow to get a grip under Keane’s leg. He surges upwards, dumping the Keane into a heap on the ground.

Booker doesn’t follow him down. Doesn’t press his advantage. Because in a real fight, Keane would be dead right now. A single bullet. A blow to the throat. Booker has him.

Again, Keane lets him pull him up. Rubs the inside of his thigh. “You fight dirty,” he says, no heat in the words.

“Yep,” Booker says with a grin. Entirely unabashed.

Keane dips his head, and his stance changes. Narrows as he straightens up. And almost faster than anyone can follow his leg snaps up as he pivots on the other, swinging it up and driving his heel hard into Booker’s temple.

It would be an easy K-O in a match, especially without protective gear.

But not here.

Booker reacts just enough to try to dodge back. Not fast enough.

The kick is _fast._

And leaves him staggering. 

Just as fast, Keane moves in, driving his elbow up into Booker’s chin with a loud crack.

Everyone who’s watching winces.

That should be another K-O.

But nothing’s broken, so the fight goes on.

Keane grabs Booker’s arm, stepping around behind him and kicking the back of his knee to drive him off his feet, holding and twisting Booker’s arm painfully behind his back.

Booker doesn’t struggle. But he doesn’t tap out either.

“Yield,” says Keane, offering no quarter. 

Or so he thinks.

Booker suddenly turns, leaning into the hold on his wrist. And twists the _wrong way_. 

The crack of his arm breaking sounds loud in the yard. Keane’s so shocked he lets go, staring at Booker’s arm dangling uselessly down.

That’s all the opening Booker needs as he boots the inside of Keane’s knee and headbutts him hard enough to break his nose.

“Fuck,” Keane yells, hand going up to his nose. “I thought the fight was done when a bone broke?”

“Fight’s done when you break someone else’s bone. Like now,” Andy says, stepping away from the wall. “Doesn’t count if you break your own bone like Booker did.” She looks at each of the men in turn. “I think that’s enough for today.”

Keane feels the bones realign in his face even as Booker gingerly eases his arm into the right position and breathes through the healing.

The two men in the chairs look disappointed. They usually spar for much longer. And each man wouldn’t mind their own crack at the new guy.

Nile hasn’t stopped looking shocked since Booker broke his arm. “Y’all are insane,” she hisses, heading into the house and away from said lunacy.

“You did good.” Andy pats Keane’s shoulder. “Looks like you have some skills we can use. Next time we’ll let you play show and tell instead of kicking the crap out of you.”

“Appreciate that,” Keane says, willing his eyes to stop watering.

Booker also appreciates it, though no one asks him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing the running. And the sparring kicked my ass. 
> 
> How am I doing so far?


	8. Have a Minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even without running, Keane manages to ruin Booker's day.

Booker Torture Hour of Running becomes a Thing.

An awful, terrible, _why would you do this to me_ , thing.

Okay so it’s not that bad once he gets some proper clothes. And a hat. And sunglasses. 

He never quite enjoys it, but it’s not the worst thing ever.

Hurts longer than breaking his arm though.

He catches Keane looking at that arm from time to time. If he asks, Keane just shakes his head and walks away, muttering to himself.

Keane’ll learn, eventually. He’ll come to embrace the fact that he can heal from anything. And use it to his advantage. 

Nile’s already partway there, even if she doesn’t approve of their methods of demonstration.

She did shoot herself in the foot once to prove a point.

Ruined a perfectly good boot, learning one of many truths of immortality: it’s hell on clothes.

Andy gets Keane to do that ‘show and tell’ she mentioned, a couple days after his sparring session with Book. She has each of them –herself included—explain their own skillsets in and out of combat. Without anyone getting shot, stabbed, or even getting a paper cut.

They demonstrate weapon proficiency, hand-to-hand ability, and even explain their more mundane talents.

“Good,” says Andy once each has given their impromptu presentation. “We’ll probably pair Keane off with Nile for missions. You should be able to use your shared military experience to work off one another.”

Both nod. She’s not wrong. His higher training and longer experience, and the fact they’re trained by different militaries aside, they speak each other’s languages: military, and modern.

“We don’t have seniority here. There’s no chain of command,” continues Andy.

“Though we generally defer to Andy being as nobody wants to get between her and whatever she’s decided needs to die,” Booker adds with a fond smile.

Now it’s Joe and Nicky’s turn to nod. He is also not wrong.

…

Booker’s been drinking.

Because of course he has. He’s Booker, and he’s had this shit coping mechanism for two hundred years.

The only difference is now, he’s less open about it. 

He keeps the flask on him pretty much always.

Andy and Nicky and Joe have noticed him reaching for it. Stopping himself. Patting his pocket and licking his lips.

Heck, even Nile’s seen the gesture a time or two, though she didn’t make more than a cursory mental note of it.

But yeah. He’s still drinking.

He’ll step outside for a moment. Tip the flask back when he’s in the bathroom. Find an excuse to slip into his room and take a swig.

That’s how Keane catches him. For a big man, he moves almost scary silent and Booker must have forgotten to latch the door.

He has the flask to his lips when the man walks in.

“What are you doing?” Keane asks, cocking his head.

Booker swallows. Tips the flask higher and swallows again. He gets the feeling he might need it for this conversation.

He tucks the curved metal container into a pocket without responding. It’s pretty obvious what he’s doing. Keane’s not stupid.

They blink at each other for a few moments.

“Why are you _hiding_ it?”

Booker sighs, slumping to sit on the corner of the bed. “I don’t know.”

Keane takes up position next to him, his weight dipping the mattress. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t want them to bitch me out for it. Is that what you want to hear?”

Keane shakes his head. “You’re ashamed of the drinking, enough to hide it from the people you care about. Why?”

“Because it doesn’t actually fucking help but it makes me feel better, however briefly. Happy?” he snaps.

“Not really. But I’m glad you realise that. But maybe there are other things that could actually help?”

“Like what?”

“Therapy, for one. And don’t you dare think I’m making fun of you. I’ve been to therapy. Believe me: with the right person, it can help. A lot.”

Booker looks over at him, only now realising how close they’re sitting. “Why did you go to therapy?”

“I’ve seen some shit and it was bleeding out of the job and into my life. I needed help dealing with it.”

“So talking about it helped?” He’s honestly interested. Most of what he’s heard about therapy is making fun of it as a waste of time. The man next to him doesn’t seem to share that opinion.

“Talking about it. Meditating. Running. Even a bit of journaling, though I’m a shit writer and I burned it all as part of a cathartic release.” He grins. “And so no one could ever read it. I’d claim it was classified or some shit, but it was just really badly written.”

The corner of Booker’s mouth turns up at that.

They sit in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. 

“Are you going to tell them?” Booker says finally.

“About the drinking? Should I?”

Now Booker’s sigh sounds more like a growl.

“I mean it. Should I. Sounds like you have a bad habit that you know is bad. You’re still doing it, but hiding it from your friends. So where do we go from there?”

“No fuckin’ clue.” He reaches for his pocket. Grits his teeth and clenches his hand on his leg instead.

“As long as it doesn’t put anyone in danger, nobody needs to know,” says Keane. “If that changes, I will tell them. Until then, my lips are sealed. But if you ever need someone to talk to about this? About anything? You know where to find me.”

He pats Booker’s shoulder and silently leaves the room.

Booker watches as he pads from the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He pulls out the flask, and takes another drink.

…

Keane’s vehicle went missing after that trip to Paris, and he never asks what happened to it. It doesn’t matter. It was a way to trace him. Them. A loose end to be tied off.

Looks like it’s tied off and he trusts them to cover their own asses.

They move on from the safehouse after a handful of days, just as Andy’s moving better and sleeping less. They leave in the morning and drive all day, stopping to stay at a run-down old apartment complex in a neighborhood that’s seen better days in Prague.

The drive feels longer than it is, as the roads and cities and signs blur together in a constant stream of faceless places and people passing by.

Keane wonders if the years will do the same. If he’ll miss years or decades in the sheer momentum of endlessness.

It’s a terrifying thought.

He’s been alone too long. He misses a pair of arms around him as he sleeps. Finding pleasure in whoever caught his eye on that particular night. Making breakfast for his temporary partner in the morning and sending them off with a smile.

Finding someone new the next week or month. Loving them well, but briefly. And then going back to his life, his work.

No strings. No hard feelings. Just… fun.

He misses that.

Booker and Keane don’t even get a bed in the new place. They have to share the pull-out couch with the springs that poke up dangerously, trying to impale them in their sleep.

It’s a very small couch, and even though Booker and Keane go to sleep on opposite sides it sags in the middle and rolls them to the middle over time and they wind up waking with their backs pressed together.

Neither comments on this. The horrid excuse for a bed is an abomination and should be burned. But since they need _something to sleep on…_

They’re stuck with it until Booker can make flight arrangements to take them to their next safehouse.

Keane would very dearly like to find a different bed to sleep in the next night. Preferably with a warm naked body to share it with.

It’s been far too long and having a warm body next to him at night he can’t even _cuddle_ with has him peevish.

He maybe gets some spiteful enjoyment out of how much Booker hates the morning runs. Even though it’s really not his fault.

He wakes grumpy from the terrible bed and the company and the fact that he can’t go for a run because they’re in a rough neighborhood in a big city.

Coffee. He drowns his pique in coffee and scowls into it as though it’s done him some sort of wrong.

“Slept like shit, huh?” says Nile as she takes a seat at the rickety table. “Can’t blame you. I’m surprised that couch didn’t try to eat you in your sleep.”

He barks out a laugh. It’s almost impossible to stay frustrated around her.

They eat in silence, cold cereal. There’s not much food in the apartment; just what they picked up last night on the way in.

Halfway through her bowl, Andy throws her spoon down. “Alright, I’m going stir-crazy. I’m going out tonight and you’re welcome to join me, but do not try to talk me out of it.”

“Boss…” says Joe.

She points her finger in the air between them, gaze going hard. “What did I just say?”

He holds his hands up in the universal ‘look at me I’m harmless’ gesture.

She doesn’t buy it.

“All I was going to say is that there are considerations you didn’t have before,” he points out.

“Believe me, I’m _well aware_ of my new limitations,” she growls.

“I think he might be talking about STI’s,” interjects Keane.

Joe nods, relieved someone can just come out and say it. Someone other than him, who can get _their_ ass kicked by Andy.

She levels Keane with six thousand years’ worth of perfected glare. 

That glare might be more lethal than most guns, he thinks.

“I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m saying use condoms.” He looks around the room, wondering what the big deal is. And then realises he’s looking at a thousand-year-old monogamous couple, someone he’s half-convinced hasn’t had a sexual partner in two hundred years, a young woman who he has no right to ask about her sexual history, and an ancient woman who up until a couple weeks ago didn’t have to worry about STI’s.

Unhelpful: the only other person in the room who likely has any clue about safe sex is Nile.

Nile meets his gaze. “How about you buy them and I’ll explain how to use them?”

“I’ve had partners who did before,” Andy says with a shrug.

“Yeah but now you need to insist on it,” says Nile. “And bring your own.”

Everyone but Booker nods. He seems incredibly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He’s reached for his pocket twice.

“Babysitter comes with for condom run?” says Keane.

Joe nods absently. Nobody else gives any indication they’ve heard.

So Keane grabs Booker by the sleeve and drags him out of his chair and away from the table. The conversation continues on without them and Booker is more than happy to let it.

“Thanks,” he breathes as they step out into the street.

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re about to learn about safe sex shopping.”

Booker pales and his hand reaches for the flask. Pauses. Heaves a sigh and pulls it out, taking a long drink. Then has to jog to catch up with Keane as he strides down the street, looking up the nearest pharmacy on his phone.

…

Booker should have stayed behind. Any conversation has to be better than this.

Why is there _so much variety_???

Size. Material. Ribbed. _Flavoured._

_Glow in the goddamn dark._

His brain may never recover from that mental image.

It’s all he can do to keep from openly drinking, right there in the store.

And Keane is _taking his time_. 

_Why?_

He unabashedly picks up boxes. Reads them. Sets them back down. “Shit I know what works for me but the anatomy’s different when there’s a woman involved. You know?”

He does and he doesn’t and this is worse than running.

And then.

And _then_.

_After_ he picks two different boxes with a dozen each, he starts looking at _lube._

Why.

What could Andy possibly need with-

Isn’t that more than a bit invasive and presumptuous?

Wait.

Keane didn’t even read one of the boxes. Just grabbed it and tossed it in the basket.

And lube. What if the lube is for-

Booker’s mind refuses to continue that train. Nope. He steadfastly refuses to acknowledge anything Keane is doing or looking at until he’s selected _whatever_ and put it in the basket and they move on to getting first aid supplies.

A lot of them.

“These could save Andy’s life,” Keane says. “Or someone else’s.”

Booker lets him grab whatever he wants, trusting Keane to know what works best. He tosses a backpack in on top. “We’ll need a bigger kit for all this,” Keane explains.

At the till, the teenager scanning their purchases smirks at them, obviously enamoured of the couple in front of her. Keane doesn’t seem bothered by that at all.

Booker wants to melt into the floor.

Even without running, Keane finds ways to ruin his day. And he’s only getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer to get out. I've been really sore and tired lately and this chapter kept going sideways on me. 
> 
> As always: I love comments!


	9. Looking at Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immortals head out to the bar and someone maybe has a revelation

Keane unpacks the bags on the now-empty table once they get back, pulling out their existing first aid kit and dismantling it on the table before carefully and deliberately packing the new backpack as their new, far improved, kit.

“Planning something?” asks Nicky as he leans against the counter.

“No but your first aid kit leaves a lot to be desired. And one of you can be hurt. I thought it best to be prepared.”

Nile passes and he tosses her one box of condoms. “For Andy,” he says.

Joe, of course, latches onto the fact that there’s a second box on the table. “And those?”

Keane grins and something about that makes Booker want a _much_ bigger flask. 

“They’re for me.”

Every pair of eyes narrows on Keane. He continues unpacking like that statement doesn’t hold an entire _world_ of implication.

“Um…” says Nile.

“Future considerations,” he says mildly. “I certainly wouldn’t bring someone back here. It’s dingy, there’s no privacy, and _I’m already sharing a bed._ ”

Well that’s a relief, but there are still many questions.

“So what’s the alternative?” asks Andy. She doesn’t quite sound ready to throw down yet. But knowing her, that could change in a matter of words.

“Whenever you guys decide you trust me enough, I rent a hotel room, pick someone up in a bar, have myself a good night, and meet up with you the next afternoon.”

“You sound like that’s something you’ve done before,” says Nicky.

“Many times. Always with eager partners and without any lies or bullshit. It’s a fun release and I won’t put anyone though being in a real relationship with someone in my line of work.”

“We don’t trust you yet,” Andy insists. “Keep going the way you’ve been, and we’ll get there.”

He nods. Picks up the condom box and sets it back down. “And I’ll have what I need once you do. Are we still going out tonight?”

“Yeah. I’m not going to have gone through that _unnecessary_ lecture and not get drunk tonight, thanks,” Andy replies with a glare that encompasses everyone in the room.

“It was necessary, Andy-“

“No it wasn’t because I’m not fully healed and I’m not going to try to pick someone up until I am,” she growls.

It’s like everyone here thinks she’s a walking ball of horny.

“Get your heads out of the gutter. We’re going out. Nobody but Nicky and Joe are getting laid,” she assures them. Sighs. “As per usual.”

The two men in question grin at each other.

…

There are two fields of thought among the immortals when it comes to dressing up:

Camp one consists of Joe, Nile, and Keane. This camp can best be summed up as ‘I’m going out and this is an excellent opportunity to Look Good.’

Camp two is Andy and Booker. Their philosophy is, ‘I’m going out to drink. What does it matter what I look like.’

Nicky’s manner of dress puts him in camp two, though his reasoning does not. His reasoning is, ‘Joe is the only person who matters in any given room and he thinks I’m sexy in literally anything.’

So camp one spends the afternoon primping: taking turns in the shower. Trimming beards. Carefully selecting the right clothes.

Nile spends most of it pulling her hair into an elaborate up-do, with a little help from Joe.

Camp two looks on, amused, aided by a steady stream of caffeine. They clean guns just for something to do, spreading them out over the kitchen table.

“You’re not bringing those to the bar, are you?” Nile asks, eyeing camp two suspiciously from the bathroom door.

“Nope,” Booker assures her.

“I would if I thought I could get away with it,” chips in Andy.

“What she said,” adds Nicky.

Nile ducks back into the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

“We’re surrounded by heathens,” Keane says, coming to stand in the doorway as Nile does her makeup. Joe stands behind her, putting some sort of treatment in his hair. It’s not a very big bathroom, but they’re making it work.

“You’ve done this before,” says Keane, glance skipping back and forth between the two.

“Yeah,” says Nile, stopping halfway through applying mascara. Staring down at the sink, wand held loosely in her fingers.

Joe rebukes him with a look. “She has a brother,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Nile says to the faucet. “Mother too. We used to get ready in a tiny bathroom like this.” She looks up and back at Keane, the weight of grief on her. “It’s still fresh, you know? That I can’t see them anymore.”

Keane’s just about to offer a hug when she holds her hand up between them, finger pointed at the ceiling. “If you hug me, I’ll cry. And then I’ll have to re-do my makeup. Tonight’s for fun, not crying.”

With that, she goes back to applying mascara.

Keane leaves her to it. Making Nile cry was not on his priority list for today.

Or ever, really.

…

They walk to the bar, even though Keane offers to designated drive. The place they picked is only a few blocks away and they take advantage of the opportunity to stretch their legs a bit.

Joe waxes poetic about the city as they make their way along streets spot-lit by dingy yellow streetlamps. He points out architecture. Tells ridiculous maybe-true stories about the city, with an obvious fondness.

Nile wonders how many places, how many cities he can speak about like this. In any case, even the not-as nice parts of the city have this incredible charm to them. It’s a beautiful city and she can see why he seems to love it so much.

The bar looks pretty standard from the outside. Like any pub almost anywhere in the world. But it’s massive on the inside. They arrive early after opening, when there’s only a handful of people inside. It allows them to claim a larger booth for themselves not far from the dance floor.

They sit and order a round, relaxing back into the seats and taking in the place before the crowd and the noise can overwhelm.

“You guys dance?” says Nile. She is absolutely stunning tonight in a pair of jeans, her new boots, and a purple top that bares her stomach and has elaborate straps that criss-cross her back. Her hair is braided in curved rows from the base of her neck up, leaving a riot of curls at the crown of her head that spills down her forehead.

Later she will catch the eye of more than a few in this bar. She will ignore every single one.

Joe nods, emphatically. He, of course, loves to dance.

Andy shrugs. 

Keane grins.

Booker sinks down in the corner and takes a drink. This is one situation where he doesn’t feel like he needs to hide it. He will be taking ample advantage of that tonight.

Nicky’s just sort of neutrally unresponsive.

“Good,” says Nile, grabbing Joe by the arm. “We’re dancing. Hope you don’t mind my stealing your partner,” she tosses over her shoulder as she drags Joe away.

Nicky’s soft smile turns to a broad grin as Joe winks back at him.

There is. A _lot_ of drinking. That happens at the table. Even Keane has a mocktail or three.

Andy discovers that, despite what she’d been led to believe by her immortality, she is, in fact, a cheap drunk.

Her words start slurring after the third drink and she peers at the nearly-empty glass. “The fuck’s in this shit?” she asks.

Booker bursts out laughing. “Vodka, Andy. And not that much of it. Looks like you found a benefit to mortality.”

She glares at him and lurches out of the booth to join Nile and Joe on the dance floor. They’ve spent most of the evening so far, out there. Only returning to the table for a quick drink, and, in Joe’s case, kiss.

Nicky stays quiet, pacing himself with the drinking. Contentedly people-watching. And giving as good as he gets with those kisses.

Keane eases his way into it, watching the crowd build for a while before getting up from the booth. But at some point he finishes his current drink and slides out to go chat someone up at the bar: this gorgeous Adonis who’s even taller than Keane is, with a stunning smile. He seems more than happy to accept the drink Keane buys him, leaning in as they talk.

Booker doesn’t watch, glowering into his drink.

It’s like someone flipped a switch when Keane stepped out of the booth. Gone is the soldier. The man who’s painstakingly built his body into a weapon. He even walks different, with almost a dancer’s grace.

‘On the prowl’ is supposed to be a metaphor, but something about the way he moved on his way to the bar is reminiscent of a stalking cat. And he only has eyes for the tall, gorgeous man next to him.

Who could blame him? Those bare arms look like they could lift a truck. His dark skin catches the flickering lights in the bar, highlighting the strong jaw and a body any man, woman, or anything between would be more than happy to worship for a night.

Or a lifetime.

The long column of his throat works as he downs the drink Keane buys him, right there by the bar. Then takes Keane’s hand and leads him to the dance floor.

Booker’s not watching. He’s most definitely not watching as they find an empty space between gyrating bodies and step close.

His frown doesn’t deepen as Keane’s hand rests on the man’s hip and they both start _moving_.

There’s nothing obscene about it. They’re not grinding on each other. (Though someone in the bar might be _not_ wondering if that’s inevitable.) They’re just barely touching. 

But the things their gazes are doing to each other’s bodies should be censored.

“Are you unwell?” asks Nicky. Booker normally enjoys these outings but tonight he seems rather miserable.

" ‘mfine,” he mutters, taking another drink and dragging his gaze away from what he _hasn’t_ been staring at.

What the hell is wrong with him. Shouldn’t he have gotten over this kind of thing like, two hundred years ago? Hasn’t he spent a good portion of that next to two men who were _openly, unapologetically_ affectionate? Why is it bothering him _now._

Nile and Joe return to the table, faces glowing with the sheen of exertion and with the sheer enjoyment of the night. They slide into the booth, Joe all but plastering himself to Nicky’s side and kissing Nicky behind his ear.

Nicky shivers as he pulls him close, eyes going heavy-lidded.

See? That doesn’t bother Booker one bit, aside from the affectionately exasperated _get a room_ look he sends them.

A more-than-a-little drunk Andy flops into the booth next to Booker a few steps behind the rest. Grinning like an idiot. She hasn’t had this much fun in ages.

In _or_ out of a bed.

Booker scowls at her too.

“What pissed in your cheerios?” she says, for some reason finding the statement hilarious. Then her gaze strays out to the dance floor and the two men who are enjoying a lot more than the music. Then back at Book. She snorts.

“What,” he says, biting off the word.

“Is it all the couples who are bothering you, or just that one,” Nicky says mildly, cutting straight to the heart of it.

Booker blinks at him. Then stares around at different couples in the bar. Back at Joe and Nicky. And then to Keane and Adonis on the dance floor.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taking this crazy ride with me. There's lots more to come and I just wish I knew what any of it was going to be!
> 
> Pleas comment if you're enjoying it so far!


	10. The Pathway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something unexpected happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: body horror, graphic depiction of injury, head trauma.
> 
> All to a character that will heal it.

About an hour before closing time Keane bids farewell to his Adonis and sets him free to find a proper hookup for the night. Assuming that’s what the man wants. He returns to the booth loose and smiling. 

Andy’s boneless and staring at the glass in her hand, rapt on the ice swaying in the amber liquid. Catching the flashing lights from the dancefloor in their depths, trapping them in individual tiny prisons. 

Nicky and Joe are wrapped up in each other, soft and affectionate. 

Booker hasn’t moved from his glowering-into-his-drink position for most of the night. 

And Nile looks a little confused as to how she managed to be surrounded by all these idiots.

“Had your fun?” she asks Keane with a grin as he slides in next to Joe. 

“Well I’d prefer to have _more_ fun, but this’ll do for the time being,” he says with a lazy smile of his own.

“Should we head back to the apartment, then?” asks Nicky.

Andy and Nile nod, so they all start gathering up their jackets. They’ve had their fun for the night.

Booker has to support Andy as they step into the chill and quiet beyond the wooden doors. The woman can barely stand upright and certainly can’t walk in a straight line.

He puts an arm around her, bracing at her hip and she leans heavily into his side. Mostly glad to have something to focus on that’s not _him_.

Keane and Nile walk side by side behind the drunken staggerer and the oddly sober drunk, enjoying the scenery as they make their way along the sidewalk towards home. 

Joe and Nicky have reached the Snuggly portion of the evening, walking stuck to each other’s sides and speaking in soft whispers and touches. Lost in the world that is each other as they trail along at the rear.

The car looks much like any other in the sparse late-night traffic. Except it slows down as it passes them.

Something about that sends a chill up Keane’s spine. 

The rear window rolls down and he doesn’t wait to see the barrel emerge, turning to put himself between Andy and the car. The gun. The _bullets._

Which means he gets an up-close-and-personal view of Booker’s head exploding.

One second Booker’s staring, eyes going wide as he sees the gun. The next he’s still staring, but half his face is a ruin of red and pink with shards of white. One piercing blue eye catches on Keane’s face as the pupil blows and his legs collapse out from under him.

The other eye, and the section of face. Of _head_. That held it, is gone.

Nile stares as Andy tries to balance Booker’s literal deadweight and Keane steps in to grab his arm, lowering him down to the ground.

Nicky and Joe only flash a cursory glance back to ensure Andy hasn’t been injured before they start running after the car.

It speeds up, pulling away and around a corner. The men give chase for half a block before giving up, returning to find Keane kneeling next to Booker’s still form while Andy and Nile scan the street for any other threats.

“We need to get out of here,” says Nicky, bending and scooping Booker up into his arms. Joe takes up position at Andy’s side and they’re already on the move, keeping to the shadows as they make their way back towards the apartment and hopefully, safety.

“Was that a hit?” Nile hisses to Joe.

He shakes his head. “Got a glimpse of the shooter. Young guy. Looked scared. Gang initiation, I’d guess,” he says.

“Shit,” she hisses, still on high alert, half-sure another attack will happen from behind every car they pass. Every alley. Every shadow.

“Better him than someone who can’t come back from it,” Nicky interjects with that terrifying pragmatism of his.

Keane joins in on Nile’s paranoid scanning, not trusting anything bigger than a breadbox to not be hiding another assailant. Neither lets up until they reach the apartment, where Nile checks inside for fresh attackers while Keane keeps watch outside with the others.

There’s no one. No sign of forced entry or tampering. The place is as they left it.

Of course there’s no one. This was a random attack. Senseless, _pointless_ violence that just leaves everyone involved empty in the wake of their shock and grief.

Keane’s the last one in. His hands start shaking as soon as he throws the deadbolt.

Behind him, Nicky lays Booker on the floor while Joe grabs a towel to put under his head. There’s oddly not much blood. Most of the mess got left behind in that street and someone’s going to be very confused and very disturbed when they stumble across it in the morning. 

Booker’s skull and face are slowly reforming in a grotesque and fascinating show. Nicky and Joe take turns watching over him while the rest get changed and cleaned up. Nile puts Andy to bed. The woman’s swaying on her feet and can barely keep her eyes open.

Keane’s somewhere else, palm on the front door and staring at his feet as the breaths come faster and faster.

It’s dry. Hot. There’s a group of them, quietly patrolling a neighborhood. Thomas is telling one of his wildly exaggerated tales of attempted-but-failed conquests with the ladies when-

He’s on the ground. There’s dust everywhere and he’s choking on it, wheezing for every lungful and coughing it back out. Ears ringing. Every muscle. Every bone. Every fibre of his body aches. There’s something on his cheek and he reaches up to pull it away. 

It’s a piece of meat. 

With skin attached. He looks up and the street is covered with shrapnel. Twisted, mangled pieces of car are strewn across the asphalt and embedded in the walls.

And then there are the other pieces. The red with the white sticking out. His brain tries to make sense of it. To recognise any part of what used to be a human being.

This is not a puzzle anyone wants to solve.

“Keane. _Keane!_ ” yells Nile from just out of reach. He looks up, eyes too-wide and as though from far away he can hear the sound of his own lungs dragging in breaths too fast. So fast his vision’s fuzzing around the edges-

She reaches a hand out, palm up.

He stares at it for a moment before taking it. Wraps his fingers gently around hers and lets her lead him to the couch and push him down to sit on the corner of his makeshift bed. And then stares at the mess that is Booker as his body tries to repair itself.

Keane’s breathing still hasn’t slowed.

Joe comes over. Searches his face for a moment and then goes to rummage through Booker’s things.

“What are you doing?” asks Nile.

“Looking for a shirt Booker’s worn.”

“Why?”

“Because Keane sleeps next to him. It’s the closest scent to _comfort_ we have right now. Which reminds me: can you put the kettle on?”

She goes to do just that, wondering how often these people have PTSD episodes, that Joe seems to have a system for dealing with it.

He finds the closest thing to a shirt that might actually fit Keane’s broad shoulders: a jacket he’s seen Booker wear, many times. He drapes it over Keane’s back, pulling it together in front of him. “Pull it tight if you need to. Pressure can help,” he says.

Keane grabs the edges of the jacket and pulls it close around his arms, focusing on the tension outside of his body, rather than in.

Booker’s face takes forever to rebuild. 

He comes to, gasping and whimpering at the pain, just as his eye starts to gruesomely re-form in the socket. Hands scrabbling at the floor as he writhes in pain.

Keane finds himself on his knees by Booker’s side without meaning to move. Offering a hand to clasp. Booker takes it, squeezing tight as agony roars through him in waves.

Book’s feet slide against the floor as he arches up, thrashing. 

Joe appears by his side, taking his other hand. Letting Booker ground himself in the point of strength. Watching Booker’s face with the strangest expressions flashing across his own.

Compassion. Pain. Loss. 

Anger. Betrayal.

Bone-deep hurt.

And yet, he hangs on.

Nicky takes off the hoodie he’s been wearing all night, draping it over Joe’s shoulders and kissing him on the head. “Coffee?” he asks.

Joe nods, leaning into the touch. The warmth from his lover’s body still lingering in the fabric of one of the many hoodies he loves to steal.

“Coming right up.”

Nile’s heating up the teapot as the kettle starts to whistle. She watches Nicky as he starts a pot of coffee in the ancient-but-functional machine. “You guys do this often?” she asks softly.

“Which part?” he says, eyeing her evenly.

“Both,” she says. “The long healing and the…” She mouths _Keane_.

He nods. “Yes. Longevity may seem to numb us to certain things, but. Not always. We are still human. And the lives we live grant no small amount of trauma.”

“How do you do it?”

He smiles; a soft, warm gesture. “Long practice. And we make time for things other than violence and death. Time away.”

He thinks maybe they’re all due for some of that.

It takes a long time for Booker to stop writhing. For the healing to stop screaming through his skull and setting fire to his nerve endings.

The moment he stops squirming Joe lets go of his hand like it’s burning him and stalks over to the kitchen, gritting his teeth as he stares at nothing.

Nicky walks over to him. Gently eases Joe’s arms into the sleeves of the hoodie and zips it up. Pulls the hood up over Joe’s curls. And then pulls him in for a long, tight hug, ever so slightly swaying.

“Why are you wearing my jacket?” is the first thing Booker says as the pain eases and he becomes whole again. Noticing the coat before the hand that’s still in his. Or focusing on it, at least.

Keane looks down at where it drapes over his arms. “Joe gave it to me.”

“Why?” asks Booker, more for something to latch onto than any particular concern.

He shrugs. “I think he thought it would comfort me because it smelled like you.”

“Did it?”

Keane pauses, gaze catching on a broken floor tile near Booker’s head. “Yeah. I guess it did.”

Huh.

A couple minutes later they’re all in rickety chairs around the chipped table, huddling around their warm beverage of choice. “Need to add to the emergency supplies,” Nile says into her coffee.

“Oh?” says Booker, still suffering a lingering headache from regrowing his brain.

“Hot chocolate. Y’all got this thing where you get traumatised all the time, you need proper comfort food.”

That’s. Not a bad idea. They don’t drink much that sweet normally but it’d hit the spot right now.

Nicky and Joe are as close together as they can get without sharing a chair. One person in one of the wobbly things is tempting fate enough, thanks.

Joe is leaning into Nicky’s shoulder and Nicky bends to whisper something in a language that’s not English into his ear, every so often.

“Thank you, Joe,” Booker says, breaking the silenc, and the words hit like a hammer in the room. “Just for- I- Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, _asshole_ ,” Joe hisses in return.

“I know you’re still angry.”

“Yeah and I have a right to be. There was no time to comfort Nicky while _his_ head healed. I couldn’t reach him as they took samples. As they fucking _tortured_ us.”

“Then why?” Booker asks, baffled that Joe would comfort him, despite the anger seething beneath the surface.

Joe opens his mouth to reply, eyes flashing-

And is interrupted by a hand on his thigh.

“Because despite what you put us through, we still love you. We would not choose for you to feel the pain you did.”

Somehow, Booker gets the impression Nicky’s not just talking about exploding heads.

That’s not what Joe was going to say. Or at least how he would have said it. But he lets it lie.

Booker looks away, swallowing down a lump the size of the world.

And then he feels a hand on his shoulder. “You fucked up,” says Nile. “But you’re lucky: you get a long time to make it right.”

He nods, not daring to look up.

“We’re going to bed,” declares Nicky, standing and pulling Joe to his feet. “We’re glad you’re okay, Booker,” he adds before they turn away as one.

“I’ll do the same,” says Nile, leaving the remaining two to their silence.

“What did I miss?” Booker says.

“Huh?”

“I caught why you’re wearing my coat, but why did you need comfort, again?”

“Oh.” Now it’s Keane’s turn to look away. “You. The way you looked after- It brought back memories,” he says.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

One of Keane’s shoulders lifts. “Not your fault. In any case, you’re fine. A lot better result than the memory.”

“Need to talk about it?”

Keane shakes his head. “Nah. Sleep’s sounding real good right now though.”

The chair slides back as Booker rises to his feet. “It really is.”

Booker’s exhausted enough to not think of earlier revelations as he goes to bed.

That’ll come later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I starve without your comments? Yeah. We'll go with that.


	11. I've Been Dreaming Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy's not very happy with herself, the next morning.

The next morning is subdued. Everyone moves slowly. Nobody talks much. Certain people might be avoiding each other’s gazes.

So one’s angry and the other’s abashed and one’s just started feeling awkward about the guy he’s sleeping next to and okay maybe two of those are actually the same person.

There’s coffee and cold cereal and someone’s puking in the bathroom while no one goes to help because nobody wants to face the wrath of Andy at her best and this morning is very, very far from her best.

The lack of talking feels like the calm before the yelling.

And the storm is still in the bathroom.

They eat quickly, as though without ever discussing it they expect to be interrupted.

When Andy finally emerges, she looks like death.

Pale, almost green-tinged. Face like a thundercloud. Eyes flashing. Hair doing some sort of anti-gravity calisthenics that would be impressive at any other moment.

Nicky gets up to press a fresh cup of coffee into her hands before she unleashes any of that on the room.

She takes it, eyes narrowing. It’s obvious he’s trying to manage her.

She hates being managed.

_Especially_ when she needs it most.

She sighs, taking a resigned sip and stealing Nicky’s vacated chair. Punishment for management.

“Last night was stupid. I was stupid, and foolish, and made myself a burden when I should have been an asset,” she says after she downs half the cup in one go and sets it down hard enough to slosh over the side.

“We did alright,” replies Joe. Placatingly.

Yep. There’s the glare.

Andy grinds her teeth hard enough the rest can hear it. “You shouldn’t have had to. I should have been helping defend us, rather than hanging off the nearest useful person and rendering them useless, too.” She picks the mug back up, squeezing so hard the chipped ceramic looks like it’s going to pop.

“It was one night, Boss. We’re all fine. Even Booker.” Something about Nicky’s tone heavily implies ‘for a given value of fine’ for the addendum.

“It won’t happen again.” 

Her expression brooks no argument. “If that shot had been a little off, it would have been my head. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to duck.”

That gets a few winces. Nobody wants to argue because she’s not wrong.

And no one wants to think of what today would be if it was Andy who took that bullet.

Every single one of them would rather take it themselves.

“Yeah so. No more drinking for me.”

Why does Booker feel like everyone’s suddenly looking at him.

Literally not one person in the room is.

“Plus I suddenly have things like liver disease to worry about too,” she grumbles.

That is. A valid point. And at least one person is glad she’s the one who brought that up so they don’t have to.

“You don’t necessarily have to stop,” says Joe. “Just. Figure out where your limits are.”

She nods, huffing out a breath. “Yeah. Mortality sucks. I always thought I’d go like Lykon. No warning. Just. One day I don’t heal and then I’m done. Never even occurred to me I might have to _live_ with this.”

Everyone else in the room nods, so Keane assumes he’s the only odd one out. “Who’s Lykon?”

“He was the third,” says Andy. “After me and Quynh. The three of us were together for a long, long time. One day he took an ugly wound to the abdomen and…” she meets his gaze across the table; sea-green to the deep brown of good, oiled leather, “and that was it. We watched him die. Before then we didn’t know it was even possible.”

There’s a depth of pain and exhaustion in her eyes. Unfathomable. So many years and lives worth. 

“Have you lost any others?” he asks softly.

Her throat bobs as she shakes her head. “Just him, and Quynh.” And then her eyes turn misty. “I don’t understand why him and not her.” 

The weight of the horror hits him. Andy can die. Of the stupidest, most accidental, mundane things. A bee-sting. A fever. Idiot with a gun.

But Quynh has suffered and died constantly for five hundred years.

And lives to suffer on.

“Fuck,” he says.

The brief and uneloquent statement is entirely, wholeheartedly, unequivocally shared.

…

_Bubbles. The bubbles stopped a long time ago._

_There should be bubbles._

_Drowning should have the air leaving. Watching and wanting it back._

_But the bubbles were only there at the beginning._

_Only for the first._

_There have not been bubbles for centuries._

_No there’s just the barest motion of water, in and out. Lost in the sway of the seas._

_Inconsequential and almost entirely unnoticed by the universe._

_Unimportant._

_Except for the lungs that wake already screaming. Filled with water._

_The heart that tries valiantly, every time, to pump oxygen that does not exist, to a brain in constant, unending panic. To limbs that ache as her lungs do._

_To fingers that claw at the prison until they bleed; little drifts of red that are lost to the water almost as soon as they form._

_The scream in her head. In her heart. In every fibre of her being. Never emerges._

_That would take air._

_Her last scream rose to the surface next to a ship of uncaring._

_Laughing._

_Self-satisfied._

_Self-important._

_So sure they’re right._

_Quynh thought for a long, long time that Andromache shared her fate, somewhere under the water far away. Yet with her for every agonised breath._

_Until the Frenchman. The Drinker._

_Until she saw her love._

_Breathing._

_Dry._

_Crying._

_Laughing._

_Angry._

_That one’s familiar. Andromache wore anger like the warmest furs. As a protection. A tool. Andromache does anger so well and it’s one of a thousand things Quynh loves about her._

_Loved?_

_There’s no way to even know, under the weight of centuries of rage._

_Quynh’s rage isn’t a cloak. It’s molten fire, poured down her throat to blaze eternal in her chest._

_Impotent endless burning._

_Andromache looked._

_Spent countless days or months or years in ships and dragging oceans and drowning._

_Drowning._

_Over and over and over._

_The tiniest sip of her agony._

_And then._

_And then she stopped._

_They._

_Stopped._

_They went to the surface and laughed and killed and drank and ate and saved and died and-_

_Quynh drowned._

_They lived._

_She drowned._

_Shedrownedwhiletheylivedwhiletheylivedwhileshedrowned-_

_Until._

_She doesn’t remember._

_She doesn’t remember how the cage that has been her tomb for the crime of existing stopped being her cage._

_But she drowns and she wakes with screaming lungs and-_

_And she can move her arms._

_She can kick her legs._

_She doesn’t make it to the surface. Not the first time._

_Nor the second._

_But the third?_

_The third finds moonlight on her face as she pushes free like birth and feels something other than water on her skin._

_And vomits out water._

_She doesn’t get it all out before death takes her again._

_But the next time she wakes heaving for breath-_

_She pulls in a lungful of air._

_And another. And another._

_And, for the first time in an eternity, does not drown._

_…_

Booker and Keane wake as one, vaulting upright next to each other on the lumpy torture couch. Look over at each other with wide, shocked gazes.

“She’s out,” they breathe as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you and I love all you comments. Talk to me.


	12. Where Have You Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quynh's out. The immortals have work to do.

Nile appears, eyes wide, only a few moments later. “Did you just see that?” she asks.

Both men nod. “She’s out,” they say again.

“Holy shit,” Nile breathes.

Holy shit, indeed. 

“Wake Andy,” says Booker. “I’ll go get Nicky and Joe up.”

Keane pulls on some pants and a sweatshirt and goes to put the kettle on and start some coffee. It’s 3am and he’s sure it’s only the beginning of what’s going to be a long night.

If Quynh’s out, well. They have work to do.

He doesn’t get long to think about the ramifications before Andy appears, chewing her lip and tapping her hands on her thighs, glancing back at Joe and Nicky’s room every few seconds. 

Nicky comes out fully dressed and alert. Why does the man never seem to actually need sleep?

Joe’s the opposite: like he’s never slept a day in his life and _desperately needs to_.

“Quynh’s escaped the iron maiden?” Nicky asks the room, double-checking.

Three chins dip, almost as one. They all share the same shocked expression.

He reaches Andy in three strides and wraps his arms around her, pulling her in tight and holding on.

She melts into him, burying her face in his shoulder to smother a wrenching sob that shudders through her like an earthquake.

Only a moment later Joe’s pressing himself to her back, warm and safe and solid. The three of them hang on, while the other three watch, entranced.

Booker hovers at the edge, feeling like he’s a part of this, but outside it too.

He’s looked for her, alongside them. Days and weeks and months over the centuries, at sea at their side as they searched.

He’s dreamed her drowning for over two centuries, though the edge of that has long since faded with familiarity and time and essentially drugging himself to sleep most nights.

It feels like too intimate a moment to intrude on.

So he doesn’t, turning to find something to keep himself busy until they’ve had their moment. Nile and Keane follow suit.

So coffee gets started and the kettle’s put on and Keane starts making eggs even though the sun still has the pillow over its head and would tell you to fuck off if you tried disturbing it.

It takes the old ones a while to peel apart, and there’s a lot of wiping of faces as they separate and turn as one, eyeing the young ones in the kitchen.

Staring at them.

With an intense almost-hunger in their gazes.

“Tell me,” Andy breathes. “Tell me everything.”

“It took her a while to reach the surface,” starts Nile as she takes a seat at the table.

“The water’s calm where she is. The swells are low,” adds Booker, leaning on the counter and all but guarding the coffee maker.

“Night time. Moonlight across the water,” Keane tosses over his shoulder from the stove.

“Could you draw it?” says Joe. “Draw the moon? How high it was? How much was showing?”

He tears three pages out of his sketch book, handing one each to Booker, Nile, and Keane. The nearest writing utensil he can find gets pressed into each of their hands.

Three similar pictures--one in pencil, one in pen, and one in sharpie, are quickly sketched out. Booker’s surprisingly good at that. Nile’s looks like a kid drew it.

Look, the woman can’t be perfect at everything.

“Doesn’t really narrow it down,” says Nicky. “But it’s a starting point.”

Booker’s already dragging out his laptop and looking at weather patterns in the north atlantic.

“No ships. No land in sight,” Booker says. “She looked. She might have stared at the stars but I don’t remember the constellations.”

“You three are about to get a crash course in celestial navigation,” says Joe.

“Fuck!” Andy runs for the front door, flings it open, and bolts outside. Barefoot.

Keane stares after her, spatula dangling from his fingers. Head cocked. Nothing anyone said seemed to warrant-

Nicky and Joe exchange looks and tear after her.

Booker yanks on his boots and follows.

…

“We have weather data,” says Joe as he stares up at the sky, shoulder brushing Andy’s and gaze following hers.

“We know it’s night and we have a pretty good idea she’s in the Atlantic,” adds Nicky, breathless. Hands twitching at his side.

Joe reaches down without really thinking about it, taking one of Nicky’s hands in his and gripping hard.

“And the moon’s over there where she is,” Booker says, pointing at a spot in the sky well to the right of where the moon is above them right now.

“We can narrow it down,” Andy breathes.

By the time the sky begins to lighten, they’ve talked their way around it time and time again.

They’ve called Copley. Made plans.

As they’re packing, Andy pulls Booker aside.

“Book. I need you to do something for me.”

“Oh?”

“Quynh doesn’t exist. Not on paper. If she’s to travel, she has to _exist._ ”

He stares down at her, letting out a slow breath. “You need me to stay behind and get her papers.”

Andy nods. “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone because I didn’t want it to seem like reinstituting your exile.”

“I’m under no illusion that’s off the table,” he says softly.

“That not why I’m asking you to stay behind,” she assures him. “Take Keane. I’d rather keep those of us tracking her down, to as many familiar faces as possible. Get those papers made. And find us a place. All of us. Where we can have some space and time. Quynh will need it.”

She’s not the only one.

…

They finish packing. Leave no trace of their passing. One more derelict apartment among dozens. Hundreds. Lost in the press of poverty and desperation. 

Booker drives the van to a private airport to drop off Andy, Nicky, Joe, and Nile. They’ll be taking a chartered plane to England.

Booker and Keane will be on their own for a while.

“We talk, every day,” Andy says. 

That’s not how it usually goes. Normally when they go their separate ways it’s radio silence for weeks or months. 

“I’ll want to check in on your progress. And your dreams.”

So there it is. Ulterior motives.

Booker nods. Then sort of flails his hands as she drags him in for a hug. It only takes him a moment to catch up, settling his arms around her and holding on tight.

“This isn’t goodbye,” she insists. “We’ll be right back as soon as we find her.”

He knows that. It’s nice to hear her reassurance though.

“Something about faith?” he whispers.

“You know it.” Her hand grips the back of his neck before she lets him go.

And he finds himself with his arms full of a different woman.

“You take care of yourself,” Nile says after a hard hug. “Lay off the drink, alright?”

Okay so she has noticed, then. Booker catches Keane’s knowing smirk in his periphery.

“I’ll try,” he promises, meaning it. “Stay safe. I’ll see you soon.”

She bops off to join the others, flashing him a little wave.

He doesn’t turn away until the door to the plane closes behind them.

…

Booker has work to do.

First thing: swap the van for a car. That one’s easy. Van’s a rental.

Second: make their way to the nearest safehouse where he has the equipment and connections to make fake ID. That’s Moscow.

And a very long day’s drive.

Keane takes over halfway through.

They don’t talk much, each lost in their thoughts or drowned out by whatever music they can find on the radio.

There’s an intimacy to being in a car with someone for a long time and they both seem eager to forestall that, for the time being.

They haven’t known each other that long. It hasn’t even been two weeks since Keane stumbled in Copley’s front door.

Seems like far, far longer.

They’ve seen each other broken, and healing. Upset. Laughing. Comforting and comforted.

And that? It was just the beginning.

But of what?

The thought bothers Booker more than Keane.

Keane’s still finding his footing in all this. In this group and his new existence and in discovering his limits.

Booker’s had far longer to adjust. And two hundred years to miss his wife and his sons and wonder about his grandchildren and their descendants. 

Two hundred years to mourn.

But never to move on.

He’s not sure he can.

He’s not sure he remembers how.

Does he even want to?

And yet, with the broad-shouldered man next to him, seeming to shrink the space inside that car, he thinks the answer, just maybe, might be yes.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took longer than usual. It's been a busy and stressful week for me and my number one fan went afk for four days. She's back and here's your new chapter.
> 
> Comments give me life.


	13. I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker and Keane are alone now. And for some reason, that suddenly bothers Book.

This dingy apartment doesn’t seem all that different from the last one. It does have a bed, though the thing is miniscule and Keane will definitely be sleeping on the couch instead of sharing with Booker. He’s gotta draw the line somewhere.

It doesn’t seem all that different until Keane sees the trap door under the armoire and discovers that Booker’s got a hidden talent.

Keane should have known the immortals would have their own counterfeiter.

It’s the only way they could have stayed under the radar so long.

He’s actually a little impressed. With the equipment Booker has here, he could make a pretty penny just making and altering papers.

It takes Booker a couple days to build identities and backgrounds for Quynh and Keane. And the rest of them, for that matter. One can never have too many identities waiting in the wings. That being said, Booker tries to not make too many in advance. They have to change birth years every five years or so to account for the lack of aging.

The rough neighborhood’s such that they stay indoors. No point attracting unneeded attention in the brief time they’ll be here. So Keane does bodyweight exercises in the living room, rather than running. 

It’s… distracting.

Even more, that Keane’s obviously not making a show of it. He doesn’t so much as glance over to where Booker’s carefully creating identities at the table. Just finishes one set of whatever-that-is-that’s-making-him-sweat-and-his-shirt-cling (so wrong) and moves onto the next.

While Booker tries not to stare. Or look. Or get distracted.

He succeeds on the first. Mostly succeeds on the second. And fails miserably on the third.

Sebastien le Livre has never in his life so much as _noticed_ shoulders. Until now. And now? Now there’s this line in Kean’s bicep that draws his gaze like a cord snapped taught. A rippling in his back as he lowers down and pushes himself back up off the floor. 

Plus his ass in those pants is borderline obscene.

And Booker’s not getting a damn thing done.

The man is killing him and what’s worse he’s not only _not_ doing it on purpose, he’s not even noticing he’s doing it.

Booker needs to get these IDs done so they can go move to a place where he can get the hell _away_ from him. Why didn’t he think of this when Andy left them behind.

Of all this alone time? Of no more Nile cracking jokes or running along ahead of him and—damn her—enjoying it. Of no more accusing looks from Joe or considering ones from Nicky. No more worrying about Andy and her injuries.

Okay, so maybe that worry will linger even with her out of sight. That worry’s a constant gnawing at his gut. Guilt and envy and responsibility and shame and-

Yeah. Andy’s still a distraction. As is Quynh.

Not drowning. Isn’t that a revelation. Two hundred years and if this is how it feels to be the others he kind of sees how immortality might feel… good? Well. Not awful, at least.

It feels like there’s been a weight on his chest all this time and now it’s just… gone.

She’s still out there. Lost and alone, floating in the ocean. It must be awful. But even that is so much better than what she’s endured. He just hopes they can find her quickly.

But in the meantime: he has work to do. 

And distractions to ignore.

…

A couple days later they’re all packed up and hopping a chartered plane to Canada. There’s a lot of space there and they shouldn’t face too many hassles for simply existing.

The nation’s symbol is a vivid, almost shocking red wherever they look. Red and yellow, with the sharp leaves falling across roads and paths. The morning air has a bite to it. Their breath hangs in the air and the chill clings as they pull their collars against it. They rent a car in Kanata and head west, with no particular destination in mind. And stop to get themselves some warmer clothes before getting onto the trans-Canada highway.

By afternoon they’ll have to shed their coats in favor of t-shirts and they drive with the windows open as this peculiar place seems to think it’s still summer in the afternoon, though mornings clearly know the winter is to come.

In the meantime, the rest have secured themselves a ship and are on their way to where they _think_ Quynh is. The ocean’s a big place, and they haven’t found her yet. This time they won’t stop searching until they do.

“You ever been to Canada?” Booker asks after they fill up and get out on the highway.

Keane nods. “Got my jump wings in Edmonton, way back when. Haven’t been back since though.”

“We’re headed that direction. Thought we might find a place in the Rockies.”

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Keane does a quick search. “That’s quite the drive. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just fly there?”

“Yep. But we’re harder to trace if we swap ID’s after landing and then drive. We’ll trade in the rental tomorrow and pay cash for a car. And not use those ID’s again until we leave the country.”

“You that worried about being followed? Or tracked?” Keane asks.

“Nope. I’m worried about someone tracking _you_.”

Shit. The man has a point. While the rest of them are ghosts with multiple pasts and no set identity, Keane’s recently dead. And it could cause a whole pile of problems for the lot of them if someone recognises Keane as himself.

“So we have a few days’ drive ahead of us.”

“Yep.”

“What’s the plan once we arrive?”

“Find someplace out of the way. With space and quiet. Where we could settle down for a while. Quynh needs it. So does Andy, I think.”

So does Booker. It’s been a very long time since he had any down time where he wasn’t alone. He doesn’t even remember what that looks like anymore.

Normally he collects books, keeps up with the counterfeiting trade, and drinks.

Barely an existence and never a life.

The truth is, this scares him. Being surrounded by people who care about him. People he’s hurt. People who are angry. Who feel betrayed. Who want to forgive.

All of it terrifies him. Because this time, he has no out. No convenient escape route. No end date.

The fear burns in his gut. That they’ll reinstate his exile. That Keane will prove himself and won’t need babysitting anymore and then it’ll be time for Booker to once more pay the price.

It’s a price he’s earned. He can acknowledge that. Own it.

But that doesn’t mean it’s a price he wants.

He’d take it all back if he could. The betrayal. The capture. The torture he let Kozak visit on Nicky and Joe.

He got a glimpse of exactly what he put them through, with Keane. With the dreams of what he experienced at her hands.

Kozak had them. Joe and Nicky. The things she did when she had them-

Joe wouldn’t tell him, even if he asked.

Booker won’t ask Nicky.

Nicky would tell him. Calmly. With just enough detail to get the point across. He’d do it without blame or accusation. Because Booker should know precisely what the repercussions of his actions were.

Booker’s too much a coward to put himself through that.

Plus Joe might shoot him for putting Nicky through having to recount it. 

Like, literally.

Joe would dearly like to shoot him, Booker thinks.

Joe carries the greater part of grief over the pain Booker caused. That’s their way.

Nicky’s anger flares hot and then simmers deep. He pulls it out when he’s centered enough to process it without hurting anyone.

Joe’s burns there right on the surface, flaring when he lets it. When he needs it to. And it burns for a long, long time.

Nicky can forgive, should he choose to.

Joe too, but it’s not really a choice for him. He forgives after his anger burns out.

Neither will ever forget, and Booker aches for that he’s irrevocably altered what they were.

Not much he can do for that now, except to find them all a place that feels like a home.

Maybe a new start?

He can hope.

If he can even remember what that is.

…

They stop at a roadside inn that night and Booker secures them a dingy double room.

It should be just like any other night since Keane joined them.

It’s not.

Everything feels off. Sharper. Closer. Bigger. 

Or maybe that’s just Keane.

Every space seems to shrink around him and Booker’s noticing things about him he doesn’t know if he’s ever noticed about _anyone_.

He loved the back of Jehanne’s neck. The curve of her calves. The dimples in her knees and her small high breasts.

No one else’s anything has drawn his attention in over two centuries.

Until now.

When a pair of strong, calloused hands draws his eye as they untie the laces in a pair of boots.

When the way a pair of thighs fills out a pair of jeans has Sebastien suddenly dry-mouthed.

When he wonders how a short beard feels when it rasps along your throat.

What. The fuck. Is _wrong_ with him?

Why now? 

Why after all this time and with someone so different from anyone he’d ever have considered, has he suddenly awakened?

He’s been content with one love. One great love that ended too soon and tore his heart open in a way he didn’t think he’d ever recover from.

Didn’t ever let himself recover from.

Does this mean he’s forgotten her?

Would she hate him for choosing another. For wanting another pair of arms to hold him. To comfort him.

To love him?

He’s nowhere near that point. Not yet. But damned if he doesn’t want to know what those lips feel like on his skin.

And damned if he knows what to do with _that_ information.


	14. I'm Getting Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canada is a bitch and winter comes without warning.

They turn in their rental and pay cash for a little older car that shouldn’t attract attention if Booker keeps under the speed limit. He pays extra to keep the license plate.

They can worry about insurance and registration when they get another car at their destination. This one just needs to get them across three provinces. That shouldn’t be so hard, should it?

Canada is a bitch and winter comes without warning.

Like literally without warning. It’s cold, of course, in the morning. But that feels no different from the day before.

It doesn’t even get significantly colder. 

Not at first.

And then there’s a dusting of snow. It’s pretty. Both Booker and Keane roll their windows down to put their hands out to catch a few snowflakes. And then immediately close them because yeah. Colder. Plus wind from driving. The joy of snow is not worth the sting.

Said snow worsens, and quickly. It’s only a matter of minutes before it’s so thick Booker can barely see the road.

“Shit,” he breathes. It’s getting slippery too. Trees tower close to the winding two-lane road, blocking the view of oncoming traffic. “We can’t stop here. We’ll just end up getting hit by someone who doesn’t see us until it’s too late.”

Keane nods. “Pull off onto the next side road. We can sit tight until it blows over.”

And hope it blows over quickly.

He finds a side road and pulls off, stopping and parking a short ways up the road. “So what now?” he says. He has no clue how far it is to the nearest gas station and a glance at his phone shows no bars.

“Wait and hope for the best?” asks Keane.

“Not really my forte, unless there’s alcohol involved.” And even then, hope’s not invited.

“How much do you have with you?” says Keane, glancing at the bags in the back seat.

“Not nearly enough and all that’ll do right now is help us to freeze to death faster.”

It’s good that Booker understands that, Keane thinks to himself. Though now’s hardly the time to lecture him on the habit. 

“You frozen to death before?”

A strange, almost fond expression crosses Booker’s face. “Yep. A few times. My second death. Third, fourth, and seventh, too.”

Well that’s fucking terrifying.

“Dare I ask what the first was?”

“I’ll tell you after we layer up and climb into the back. We’ll stay warmer if we sit closer together.”

“Huddle for warmth?” Keane says with a sardonic twist of his lips.

“Pretty much.” Booker slides the keys into his pocket and awkwardly crawls between the seats into the back.

“Been a while since I’ve been in the backseat with someone,” Keane says with a chuckle as he moves to follow.

Booker stares at him with a dawning horror as Keane awkwardly pries himself between the seats and flops onto the seat next to him.

When Keane doesn’t get the witty comeback he expects, he glances up. And sees the last thing he expects: a look of sheer panic on Booker’s face.

“I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he quips with a smirk.

Booker is seriously contemplating opening the door and going out into the driving snow, rather than staying in proximity with that grin.

And those teeth, apparently.

“Hey I only put moves on the willing,” he says, more seriously. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

Yeah, that’s the word. Booker has to bite back a laugh at the sheer ludicrousness of it. Because hey, good news: Keane appears entirely oblivious to Booker’s recently discovered attraction.

And hey, bad news: Keane appears entirely oblivious to Booker’s recently discovered attraction.

“I’m aware,” Booker says drily, blindly reaching into his pack for any clothing he can layer.

They both awkwardly pull off their boots and struggle into all the pants and shirts they can fit on their bodies, arms and legs flailing into each other in the opposite of anything approaching sexy.

That helps the awkward, at least. Bonus: putting clothes _on_ is the opposite of anything that usually happens in the back seat of a car.

“Don’t bother putting the boots back on,” says Booker. “Your feet will stay warmer with multiple socks anyways.”

“Know this from experience?” Keane replies, voice muffled by the depths of a second hoodie he’s puting over three long-sleeved shirts.

“Yeah.”

Keane doesn’t question it, following Booker’s advice once he gets the hoodie in place.

The windows are fogging up, marring the view of the outside. Not that there’s anything to see but white. It sheets the windshield. Slowly climbs the side windows. Oddly pretty, for how lethal it has the potential to be.

Keane moves closer, pressing his side against Booker’s. “So,” he says, breath puffing out in a little cloud as he speaks, “You’ve frozen to death before?”

“Yup. Don’t recommend,” Booker says as he wiggles in closer.

“Care to elaborate?”

Booker heaves a sigh. “You know those stories where there’s a point but for some reason you have to tell a lot of backstory to get to it?”

Keane’s chin dips as he pulls on a pair of gloves and a toque before pulling both hoods up. “Yeah. This one of those?”

“Yep,” says Booker, popping the ‘p’.

“Well lucky for you I seem to have an opening in my schedule,” Keane says with a little twist of his lips. “Fire away.”

“Well. Let’s just say my skills at forgery aren’t a recent thing. When they caught me I was offered a choice: join the army or go to jail.”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for military.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged me for jail either,” says Booker, rubbing his hands together and tucking them under his arms.

“Good point.”

“Plus I had a wife and two kids at home. Jehanne was pregnant too, though I didn’t know that when they shunted me off.”

“Shit,” Keane breathes.

“Yeah,” Book says with a sigh. “Prison got them nothing. Army life at least meant I could send them money. Bless that woman for a saint: for some reason no matter how much of a screwup I was she never even considered leaving.”

There’s a soft expression that comes over his face as he speaks of her, that Keane’s only ever seen flashes of before. Booker loved his wife very much; that’s obvious. Keane wonders how she died, but now’s hardly the time to ask.

“So, yeah. I got caught trying to sell a fake painting and ended up in the military, couple decades after the Revolution. Shit deal. Shit job. The bastards didn’t have enough food for us and weren’t equipped for the cold."

"So you starved. And froze."

"And tried to desert, for the above reasons. Fat lot of good I’d do Jehanne and my boys if I died. Army’s better than prison, but alive’s better than dead, paycheque or no.”

“Did you succeed?”

Booker barks out a laugh; a jarring sound in the confines. “Hardly. Got caught and then hung for my crime.”

Keane blinks. Stares at Booker. “No. You didn’t find out you were-“

“I did. At the end of a noose, in full view of the troops. Hung there for three days, pretending to be dead in the freezing cold.”

“And dying again.”

“Yep. Noose froze and wasn’t enough to kill me anymore. So the cold did. Over and over again.”

Shit. That sounds. Awful. Excruciating. Confusing as hell.

“How’d you get away?”

“Waited three days for them to move on and ate a crow raw. Managed to make my way back home on foot.” That was a long, long winter. But Jehanne had thought him dead. She was overjoyed to find his ragged ass stumbling in. And he was overjoyed to see they had another little one on the way.

“Just for the record, I am not available for cannibalism,” Keane says drily.

“Important information,” Booker replies with a nod and a grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You think we’ll freeze to death this time?” Keane says, staring at the fogged-over windows.

“Dunno how cold it gets. The snow came out of nowhere but it doesn’t feel that far below zero.” Though the cold keeps creeping in past the layers.

“We should tuck the rest of our clothes in around us. Stick our feet in our bags,” says Keane.

It’s a good idea. They both start pulling the rest of their clothes out of their duffels. 

“And you should sit in my lap.”

Everything was going so well. The cold and their being trapped and the stories of hanging and crime and eating raw birds had been an excellent distraction. And then he’s gotta go say something like that.

“I-“

“Look, this is about survival, not flirting. I know I’m not your type and I promise not to try anything. But if we’re going to stay as warm as we can, we need to get closer.”

“Who said you’re not my type?” The words pass Booker’s lips before checking with his brain.

And why the hell was _that_ the most important part of the statement?

“Wait, what?”

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” And just to spite himself, Booker moves to sit in Keane’s lap sideways. Because why not make this even _more_ awkward?

Keane’s arms come up around Booker automatically, steadying him and pulling him in. “I’d have staked money you were straight.”

“Yeah so would I until about a week ago.”

What, the hell, brain? It’s just going for broke, now.

Keane barks out a laugh, loud in the confines of the car. “What changed?”

Booker would rather be anything other than having this conversation. Maybe he should just go out into the snow to prove it.

Instead, he just fucking out and says it.

“You did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: I love comments!
> 
> If you're commenting and you're in the discord, tell me who you are. I have no idea if you use different usernames on different sites.


	15. Talk About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold conversations in warm laps continue.

Keane has to think a moment before he formulates a reply. “Is this your way of saying I turned you bi?”

Booker half growls, half-sighs. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Growls again.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And a compliment,” Keane says. Booker can _hear_ the smile in his voice.

The cold is looking real good right now.

“Okay. Enough teasing,” Keane continues, voice more even and having lost his mirth. “I get that this might be confusing. Frustrating. Unexpected. Unwelcome, even.”

Booker’s head snaps around, gaze locking to Keane’s, his pale eyes looking into the depths of Keane’s soft, welcoming dark ones. Keane gaze is soft. Understanding. 

Even as Booker’s is wide and shocked. Caught completely off-guard by Keane’s sudden shift.

“Hey I remember what it was like, realising I was attracted to men. Feeling like I was some sort of strange outsider. Wondering what my friends and family would think of it. If they would think I was a freak. If they would hate me. People weren’t so understanding back then.”

Booker swallows. “What did they think?”

Keane’s face sort of crumples, and his gaze skitters away. “My older brother was supportive. A little shocked and very underprepared, but he found his footing quickly enough.” A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“And your parents?” Booker almost doesn’t want to know. To hear that they didn’t accept Keane for who he was.

“They never knew. I didn’t really realise consciously until the year after they died.”

Oh. _Shit._ “I’m sorry,” he says. “How old were you?”

“Twelve. Car accident. Drunk driver. They never felt a thing.” 

He and his brother felt plenty, though neither was in the car that night.

“God I’m so sorry,” says Book. “I didn’t mean to poke at a wound.”

Keane shrugs. “Can’t say it doesn’t still hurt. But talking about it hardly makes it worse.” An old wound. One you learn to live with, if you survive it in the first place.

“But your brother took it well?”

Keane chuckles. “Not really. Not at first. He mostly froze and said, ‘Okay.’ Then stayed up all night researching and sat down with me the next day and told me he loved me and he just wanted me to be happy and have good relationships. He was eighteen at the time.”

“Young. He raised you after they died?”

“Yeah he insisted on taking care of me. There was some insurance money but he was careful with it. Made damn sure I kept up with school. Worked hard.”

“You talk like he’s gone too.”

Keane stares out the windshield like he can see something far, far away. Puffs out a breath. “Yeah.”

Booker leans into Keane’s chest, the closest he’ll get to offering comfort. “What happened?”

“He got sick. By the time they figured out it was cancer, it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.”

Keane shrugs. “Nothing to be done for it now. I joined the military because I bought into the ‘we’ll be your family’ propaganda. Rest is history.”

Booker gets the impression Keane’s been alone for a while too. “Is that why you prefer to pick guys up in bars? No strings. No entanglements. No one to lose?”

Keane shifts under him and looks down. Their faces are _very_ close. “Think you and I found very different solutions for the same problem.”

Booker swallows, and for a reason _other_ than that they’re close enough to kiss. It’s not pleasant having someone just look right through all your excuses and get to the heart of the matter.

“I think we might have,” he finally admits. “In more than one way.”

The alcohol. The sex. They seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum on a few things.

“So. Was realising you were attracted to men a bit of a shock?”

Booker groans. “Can we not have this conversation when I’m sitting in your lap?”

Keane’s answering chuckle sends shivers down his spine.

Not.

Helpful.

“Okay. We’ll talk about it later. Until then we just snuggle for warmth?”

“Why. Why do you have to be like this?”

“You like it,” Keane replies without hesitation.

He is. The worst. The absolute. 

_Worst._

Keane pulls him in a little closer and starts tucking their clothes in around them.

“I promise in the future we’ll only cuddle for fun reasons and only if you want to.”

“Appreciate that,” Booker grumbles.

Warm arms wrap around him and he goes silent as the snow blankets their car and closes them in. Booker’s stiff against Keane’s chest, resisting the urge to just go with it. 

For a few minutes.

He relaxes by degrees until he’s finally just slumped against Keane’s chest, head on his shoulder.

And eventually, falls asleep.

…

It’s dark when Booker opens his eyes. Blinks. Tries to figure out where he is.

It’s cold. He can see his breath. He burrows into the warmth under his cheek and the pair of arms tighten around hi-

Wait, what?

It comes to him, all at once. Sitting in Keane’s lap. The admission. The conversation. Falling asleep?

Yup. Must have. Fallen asleep.

In another man’s lap. With said man’s arms around him. _After_ admitting he was attracted.

What the hell.

Is he dreaming?

This feels like a dream.

It feels like Jehanne is about to shake him awake, an exasperated smile in her voice as she tells him he’s been talking nonsense in his sleep and could he please keep his rambling quiet and let her sleep in peace?

For a moment, he can all but hear her voice. See the softness in her gaze. Feel her pull him in.

He can see her face.

A sob escapes his throat.

“Booker? You alright?” A deep, English-accented voice says next to his ear.

He shakes his head.

A hand cups his cheek, tilting his head up to meet Keane’s dark gaze in the not-quite pitch black. “What is it?” he asks, eyes shining concern.

“I- I’d forgotten. What she sounded like. What she looked like. I’d forgotten. And for a moment-“

A myriad of emotions cross Keane’s face, faster than Booker can put a name to. And then the corner of his lips pull up.

“What did she say?”

“She told me to stop talking in my sleep because I was keeping her up.”

Keane chuckles, low and soft. “I’m glad you could hear her again. I know how they fade, over time.”

Booker nods. Swallows, even as he feels moisture stroll down his face. The hand on his cheek strays up to the back of his head and pulls it down to a warm, solid shoulder before tucking the clothes in around them again. 

“Cold?” he asks. 

Booker shakes his head. It’s chilly in the car, but nowhere near them freezing to death. Not for a while yet.

The body heat seeping into him is helping. A lot, actually.

“If this is freezing to death, it’s the best I’ve had so far.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And a lack of answer.”

“Am I colder than I’d like to be? Yes. Am I warmer than I expected to be? Also yes. I slept. Did you?” He tilts his head back without lifting it from its rest.

“Yeah. You’re warm and there’s not much else to do here.”

“Not uncomfortable?”

“Nah. You don’t weigh that much. It’s nice. The weight. The warmth.”

“Is this weird for you too?”

“Honestly? Yeah, a bit. I’m used to snuggling naked. After sex. Not clothed and cold with no sex in sight. No offense meant. Nor pressure. You don’t owe me anything. I’m not making assumptions based on your earlier admission.”

“Magnanimous of you,” Booker teases.

“Not really,” replies Keane. “I want someone who wants me as much as I do. I don’t want someone to have regrets after being with me. So if you ever feel hesitant. About anything. Assuming we ever get to that point. Please tell me. I’d rather wait than push for something you don’t want.”

Damn. Who _is this guy._

“Book. Whatever your issues or your future relationships, don’t settle for less than that. That’s bare minimum. Anyone who isn’t willing to clear that bar with space to spare doesn’t deserve you. Or anyone.”

“This means a lot to you.”

Keane nods, and Booker feels it against his head. “It does.”

“It’s nice to have someone who gives a shit.”

“Pretty sure you have a family who gives more than that. But I get where you’re coming from.”

“I wasn’t ready before. For someone to.”

“And you are now?”

Booker’s mouth goes dry at the very thought. “I- I think I might be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys. Like, so much. This fic is 11/3000+ for comments in all of The Old Guard. How???
> 
> Anyways, keep 'em coming. You give me life and I'm really enjoying writing this.


	16. Tell Me When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days of cold snuggling in a snowstorm come to an end.

“Well,” says Keane. “Be sure to let me know when you know for sure.”

“I will,” promises Book.

“I’d offer to change positions but I feel like that would just make both of us cold.” Besides, Keane’s comfortable.

More than he’d like to admit, really. Aside from the cold, the snuggling’s nice. Then again, he did sort of say that already. 

But it’s more than just the weight and the warmth.

It’s the trust.

Having a man who’s been cagey and standoffish and prone to going off on his own, lean against him. Relax enough to fall asleep in his arms. That means a lot more than Keane wants to think about.

Shit.

Looks like Booker’s not the only one feeling things he’d rather not.

Oh well. A problem for another time, he thinks. For right now he’s just trying to stay warm.

And he’s hungry.

“Any chance we have food in here?”

Booker spots a bag by their feet. “Some chips. Couple chocolate bars. Water’s frozen but if you’re thirsty there’s always snow.”

Keane shakes his head. “Bad idea. Lowers your temperature to warm it up.”

Booker knows that. “Yeah.”

“Might as well eat some chips though. The oil can help keep us warm.” 

Booker leans away from Keane to snag a yellow bag of chips, pulling it up and opening it. Offering Keane the first handful.

Keane takes some without bothering to argue before pushing the bag at Booker. He needs to eat too.

Booker does. Nothing has tasted as good as these crunchy salt conveyances in a long time. He grins and takes more.

“This doesn’t count as our first date,” Keane declares, low and dry.

Booker chokes on a chip. 

“What?” he finally rasps when his words-maker starts working again.

“If we’re going on a date, one of us needs to ask first. There needs to be planning. So. Years from now, if you start telling people our first date was in the backseat of a shitty car in a snowstorm, I’m calling bullshit.”

“That- There’s a lot of assumptions in there,” Booker says after a long silence spent processing.

Keane’s smirk is bright in the dim. “Noticed that, did you?”

Yeah. He did.

“Good thing for you the entire thing is predicated on the first step. So don’t worry about it. If we take that step, who knows where it could lead. If not?” He shrugs. There are other fish in the sea. Or men. In the bar. Or bars.

“Okay then.” Booker eats more chips so he doesn’t have to talk.

Keane follows suit, but more because he’s hungry. He could have awkward conversation and deliberately make Booker squirm all day. It’s a surprisingly entertaining venture.

But not creepily sexual. Squirm figuratively, not literally.

They finish off the bag of chips in silence before adjusting just enough to not let anything go numb. If they ever get out of here, Keane’s going to need a long run to shake everything loose again. He’ll be stiff as hell by the time they leave.

Literally. His joints. Will be stiff. From sitting. In the cold.

Get your head out of the gutter.

This time Booker rests his head on Keane’s other shoulder, settling in quickly. Not fighting it. 

Keane’s not afraid to let his hands come up under Booker’s coat. There’s like four layers of fabric between them and it helps keep his hands warm. Plus it feels nice to have his arms around Booker. Platonically.

He doesn’t let himself think beyond that. The last thing Booker needs is expectations weighing on him. He’s… got some issues. And finding out you’re bi is hardly an insignificant discovery. The man needs time.

And even after that? No guarantee Keane’s the one he’ll want when he gets his head on straight.

And the last thing Keane needs is to finally let himself fall for someone and have it be someone who doesn’t want him back.

So. No expectations. For both of their sanity.

But he does hold him close. Tuck his chin over Booker’s head. And fall asleep with his arms wrapped around the man.

…

The sound is strange. Foreign.

A muffled clunking noise accompanied by a distant-

Keane comes-to instantly, sitting up so fast he’d have dumped Booker off his lap if there was actually room enough to in the tiny backseat.

Booker flails so hard he nearly nails Keane in the nose.

The sound?

Knocking. On the driver’s window. And a voice.

“We’re here,” says Book. “We’re here. In the backseat.” He hits the switch for the door locks after whoever’s outside jiggles the handle.

“Everyone alright in here?” says a deep voice as a bearded face with an orange toque peers inside.

“Yeah,” says Keane. “Cold and stiff and hungry, but alive.”

“Good. Never know, with weather like this. It can take the unprepared by surprise.”

Don’t they know it.

“I have a snowplow. Saw you from the highway. You headed towards the Soo, or Thunder Bay?”

Booker has no idea what the Soo is, though later it will come to him: English bastardisation of the ‘Sault’ in Sault Ste. Marie. In any case, they’re headed the opposite direction.

“Thunder Bay.”

The man grins. “You’re in luck. You can follow me all the way there. It’ll be slow going, but you should make it safe.”

“Honestly we might just stop in the first town that has a free room.”

The man nods. “Not a bad idea. Weather looks clear for the next few days, but it’ll take one or two to get the road cleaned off properly.”

Booker doesn’t need to be told twice. He does _not_ want to be caught in something like this. Ever again.

“Let me help dig you out. Got a shovel in here?”

Booker shakes his head and the tow truck driver clucks his tongue chidingly.

“I know. It’s on the list, along with blankets, better winter clothes, candles and emergency food.”

“Good man,” he says as he pulls his head out of the car. “Be prepared next time.”

“You’d better believe it,” Booker mutters as he moves to sit next to Keane and find his boots.

It hurts to move. Plus he has to pee.

Keane’s highly impressed at the driver’s self-restraint. No ‘keeping warm in the backseat’ comment. He’s not sure he’d have been able to hold back, given the same ammunition.

By the time Keane and Booker haul their stiff half-frozen asses out of the car, the tow truck driver has the front of the car cleared off and dug out. “Thanks,” says Booker as the man hands him a second shovel.

Keane kicks out a spot by the exhaust pipe, getting his pants covered in snow in the process. Then climbs in behind the wheel and wills the car to start.

It complains a little before rumbling to life. He turns the defrost on high before climbing back out and cleaning off the windows and roof with his gloved hands. It’s a relief to know they’ll have real, actual heat soon. They’re both moving like the old man Booker actually is.

The thought has him snorting softly to himself. Booker’s… kind of a cradle robber here, isn’t he.

Or is Keane robbing the grave.

That makes him laugh even harder, making a strange, choked sound as he tries to hold it in.

“Think the cold’s got to my companion’s brain,” Booker says to the driver.

The orange toque bobs as he nods agreement. “Yup. It’ll do that to a person. Ever met someone from Winnipeg?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You’ll know. They’re all like that.” He nods solemnly towards Keane, who only laughs harder at the two men’s identical concerned expressions.

Ignoring them, Keane turns away and ducks behind the car. He badly needs to piss. The men take the hint, shovelling and giving him the illusion of privacy.

Booker hands off the shovel when he returns, going off to do the same.

…

In just a few minutes they get the car dug out and the two men peel off wet and superfluous layers before climbing back into the blessedly warm car and pulling back out onto the highway to follow the amber and red lights of the dump truck with a massive snowblower strapped to the front of it.

They get warm. Actually _warm_. In short order as they drive slowly through the sea of white. The snow’s half a meter high in most places. Above a meter in some.

They stop a few times to help passing motorists, letting them sit in the warm car as Booker and Keane help dig out the vehicles. It’s the least they can do after getting rescued, and there’s more than a couple very thankful people that end up joining train of slow-moving vehicles headed west.

True to his word, Booker pulls over in the first town they pass with an inn. It’s a run-down motel so ubiquitous they could be in any of over a dozen countries in the world. Every place has these: dingy little places by the roadside for people who need a bed and don’t much care about the state of the room it’s in.

He parks, leaving the car running. Stares out the windshield at the chipped paint on metal siding. “So,” he finally says, turning to meet Keane’s gaze. “Single or double?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a cat practically glued to my lap who says it's getting colder and I find myself wondering why I decided to move this fic to Canada in winter. Oh, well. Too late to turn back now.
> 
> Y'all are killing me with the comments. Keep up the good work.


	17. This Could Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're warm again. And sharing a room. Again. And the bed?

Keane stares at him for a few moments, dumbfounded.

“I have to assume you’re offering clothed snuggling,” he finally says. It’s way too soon for sex. If Booker so much as implied that’s what he was looking for, Keane would be concerned there’s something seriously wrong with him.

Booker swallows. Nods. “Yeah.”

Keane cocks his head. Then grins. “The real question is: what do we do if all they have is a double room?”

Shit.

_Shit._ That’s something he hadn’t considered. Because sharing a room and a bed is one thing. Choosing to share one bed when there’s two available? Something _entirely_ different.

And fate be a fickle bitch.

Repeatedly, as of late.

There’s a few people who are suddenly unexpectedly trapped in town. There’s three rooms left. Two beds apiece. Every. Last. One.

The fact that this knowledge doesn’t come as a relief bothers Booker exactly as much as it should.

This thing with Keane is getting complicated.

Already.

He silently thanks a God he long since stopped believing in as he pays for the night and snags the keys, that he’s getting the chance to figure all this out without the others there.

There’s a lot of pain and guilt and accusation and regret and a thousand other emotions he’d rather not put a name to, and this recent attraction is… unexpected, to say the least.

Even more so for not being unwelcome.

And he’s glad for the time and space to figure that out without the added weight of the rest.

The rest is coming. A reckoning for what he did. For what he allowed to happen. For what happened because of what he did. And he welcomes it, because the only way he gets back to a semblance of what he had with his brothers-

Or something better? Booker’s been a mess for a long time. Maybe there’s something beyond what he could have imagined, through all of this.

God, but he hopes so.

But in the meantime. Yeah. He’s glad for a little space to figure out what’s going on with Beardy-Mc-Heel-Face-Turn.

Booker chuckles to himself, thinking Nile is the only one among them who stands a snowball’s chance in hell of knowing what that term actually means.

Well, her and McBeardy himself.

He holds up the room keys as he passes through the headlights. Keane turns the car off, pocketing the key. Stuffs their clothes back in their bags with little regard for whose clothes are whose, grabs both, and follows.

Huh. Two beds. Guess Booker changed his mind.

“All they had were doubles,” Booker says like he read Keane’s mind.

“So this means…”

“We have a place to spread out our damp clothes to dry?”

Keane flashes a smile. “I like the way you think.”

He proceeds to dump both bags out on one of the beds in question. Then quickly sorts them into wet and dry piles. And then sorts the dry clothes into ‘Booker’ and ‘Keane’ piles, before folding his own and stowing them back in his bag.

“Mind if I take the shower first?” Booker asks.

“What, you’re not offering to share?”

Booker chokes on nothing.

When he manages words again, he fires back: “Keep that up and I won’t be sharing a bed either.”

Keane grins, broad. “Touché.”

Booker ignores him and heads for the bathroom. 

“If you hog all the hot water I’m dumping snow on you in your sleep,” Keane calls after him.

Booker makes an obscene gesture behind him without bothering to turn or slow down.

He does leave Keane some hot water, even though he’d very much like to stand under the hot spray for hours. It feels so good after being cold for so long.

The chill sits somewhere deeper than flesh and bone.

In a phantom pressure on his throat.

Limbs going numb as the frigid wind scrapes every semblance of warmth from him.

Aching stomach so empty. Burning.

All the while holding still. So still. Because if they notice, what worse fate might they conjure for him?

This time he might not survive.

The first dream of drowning. Of a cold and suffocation that’s so familiar yet so foreign.

Her panic is so different from his, even as they gasp for air that does not come.

The hot water cascading down over his back helps him remember where he is.

And, shit. Quynh. He should check in with Andy, now that his phone probably works again.

He turns the water off. Dries himself quickly. Roughly, with the tiny towels. The rasp of fabric on skin yet another touch to ground him in the here and now.

He puts back on the clothes he was wearing when they arrived. Not grabbing a clean change was an oversight he notes Keane doesn’t make as they pass each other on Keane’s way to the shower.

Booker quickly changes once he hears the water turn on, then cleans up his stack of dry clothes, quickly folding them and stuffing them into his bag. Then dials the phone.

“Book. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Andy’s never been one for opening a phone call with pleasantries. Right down to business, that woman.

“Caught in a snowstorm with no mobile service. Just got rescued.”

The silence that follows is the closest he’ll get to an apology and he knows it.

“We have her,” she finally says, soft and awed.

Booker sits down unceremoniously on the floor as his legs go boneless.

“Is- How is she?” he asks softly.

“Pretty damn traumatised,” Andy admits with a sigh. “But we have her. She’ll be alright, eventually.”

“I don’t have a place yet,” Booker says, fixating on his mission.

“We’re going to stay a while at sea. While she remembers herself. Then we can hole up somewhere in Europe. Give her a chance to catch up a bit on five hundred years of ‘progress’.” Her tone says volumes on what she thinks of a lot of their species’ idea of so-called progress.

“I’ll start tonight,” he promises. “You won’t have to wait long.”

“We’ll still be a bit. I’d imagine flying will be a bit of a shock.”

Oh. Shit. That’s. A good point. “Andy. We got her out. It might be a hard road from here, but Quynh’s strong. Give her time. She’ll be alright.”

“I know. We’ll come as soon as we can.”

There’s a sound in the background Booker doesn’t recognise.

“I gotta go. Keep in touch. I was worried,” she admits.

“Sorry. I’ll try not to do that again. See you soon.”

“Soon, Book.”

The line goes dead.

Booker stares at the corner of the bed next to him, lost somewhere far away. Oddly devastated by the realisation of a two-hundred-year-old hope. The termination of the despair that rode along with it.

What is this feeling.

Is this what it’s like for the pain to actually end?

For this agony that’s ridden him since he first woke up in that noose with the memory of the metal coffin and the horrific lack of bubbles, to just. Not be there anymore.

He doesn’t know this part.

How to move on. To take a step and then another and then another until he’s left behind this… _thing_ that eats him alive.

He doesn’t know how to live.

Keane emerges in a cloud of steam to find him still there, sobbing into his knees.

“Booker,” he says, dropping down beside him. “What is it? Andy-?”

Andy’s death is the worst thing he can imagine for Booker.

Book shakes his head, jaw working. “They found her,” he says in a small voice.

Oh. _Oh._ “Quynh? She alright?”

Booker’s hair flops down over his forehead as he nods. “Yeah. It- It’s just-“

“It’s all hitting you at once,” Keane finishes for him.

Booker nods again, harder.

Keane moves to sit next to him, setting his hand on the back of Booker’s head and gently pushing it down onto his shoulder. “I got you,” he says. “Let it out.”

Booker rests his head on Keane’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder, letting out shuddering breaths as Keane strokes slow circles in his back.

A long time later, Booker almost sounds like he’s snoring. 

“Bed’s right there,” Keane suggests. “Should probably use it.”

Booker nods, groaning as he rises to his feet and offers Keane a hand up. He slides into the bed, looking over and patting the other side. A clear invitation.

Keane takes it.

“This a sharing thing or a snuggling thing?” Keane asks as he climbs in.

Book’s answer is to wiggle closer and blindly reach back for Keane’s arm, pulling it over his side and around him.

Keane chuckles as he fits himself in behind the other man. “For the record: if we sleep like this all night, you _will_ wake with me prodding you. That’s not an indication of anything but that I have to piss. It’s not a request or an assumption or anything. _If_ we ever get to the point of sex, _I’ll ask_. Alright?”

Booker nods. “Yeah. And thanks. For the clarification. This is all…”

“New,” Keane answers for him. “Maybe a little scary.”

“A lot scary,” Booker counters. “But… welcome.”

Keane smiles as he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense. Had a bit of a wreck running today and my brain's feeling a little loopy but comments make me feel good so I'm putting this out now.
> 
> (I'm fine. Dislocated ankle that went back in on its own. Some bruises. No concussion. But sore.)


	18. The End of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it to Calgary. And find a new home.

It’s a good thing Keane warned him.

Because waking up with a certain part of another person’s anatomy poking you like that is a bit of a shock. 

Especially since it’s the first time that’s _ever_ happened to Booker.

Keane feels him tense as he wakes. He pats Booker’s hip. “Gotta use the can,” he says as he rolls away and pads over to the bathroom, giving Booker a little space to freak out if he needs to while simultaneously not making a big deal out of it.

Booker stares at the ceiling in the dim light of morning as conflicting feelings war within him.

Warm snuggles? 

Good. Nice. Worth repeating.

Evidence of where warm snuggles can lead?

He’s not so damn sure about that.

They haven’t so much as kissed.

What does kissing a man even feel like?

Does the beard tickle? Scratch?

Is there really that big of a difference, honestly.

Then again. Will it feel wrong. To kiss lips that aren’t hers.

He’s avoided finding out for so long it’s like he’s built up an idol of Jehanne in his head and he’s not sure how much is her and how much is a monument to his guilt and shit coping mechanisms.

She loved him.

In all his flaws and all his imperfection, she loved him.

She’d have castrated him for cheating on her, while she was alive.

But now?

Literally hundreds of years of celibacy later.

Would she blame him.

He thinks that, no matter how much it hurts to think of, the answer is probably no.

Which means he has to stop hiding behind that idol of her, and maybe move on.

Not to forget her.

Never that.

The love they had can’t be replaced.

But maybe, maybe he can have something like he had with her.

A different sort of relationship.

Affection.

Maybe even love.

Well. No need to get ahead of himself. After all, they haven’t so much as kissed.

Keane steps out of the bathroom, casting a widening shaft of light into the room. “All yours,” he says.

Booker wrestles his way out of the covers and goes to wash up.

…

They get back out on the road about mid-morning. The roads are clear but icy, so they take it slow. And stop in the first major city they drive through to buy blankets. Ski pants. Two parkas apiece. Heavy gloves. Hats. Winter boots. Wool socks. Candles. An axe. Three different types of lighters, plus flint and steel.

Once bitten, shame on me. Or something.

In any case, they won’t be caught ill-prepared again.

Booker considers just getting a new car now instead of in a few days. In the end he decides it’s not the car’s fault. It did its job just fine and they can buy a Jeep in Calgary.

It turns snowless and sunny by afternoon. 

And don’t stop until they arrive at their destination the next afternoon, some three provinces away. Flat provinces. _Boring_ provinces. Provinces with straight, snowless roads that are easy to drive at night.

They take turns driving, swapping every eight hours or so. Letting the driver take a rest for a while.

He booked them into a decent hotel this time. With a double room. When Keane quirks a brow at that, he shrugs. “You’ve been going on about choice. If there’s two beds we both know it’s a decision to share one. Gives us options if we have a bad day or a change of heart.”

The look Keane gives him is decidedly melty. He gets it.

“Good,” he says. “That’s logic I can get behind.”

They head to the elevator, and on up.

…

Booker spends the next few days scouring local listings and lining up viewings. He buys them a new Jeep with a lift kit and good winter tires. Winter hasn’t hit here yet but from his research their proximity to the mountains means weather’s pretty unpredictable and can get snowy with very little warning.

He wants something dependable that won’t get stuck easily.

They share a bed, every night. Their stuff gets strewn all over the other one and sleeping in each others’ arms starts to feel not just exciting, but… right.

It’s even more awkward for Booker the first morning he wakes curled around Keane’s back with his arm around Keane… and a distinct part of Booker’s anatomy hard and pressed a little too close to places he’s not ready to think about yet.

It takes him a long time to meet Keane’s gaze after he returns from the bathroom.

And when he does? Keane seems. Neutral. Unbothered. Entirely unfazed by the whole thing.

“Same rules apply when you wake up with morning wood,” he finally says. “You wake up needing to piss. It’s a thing. Doesn’t need to be a big deal.”

It feels like a big deal to Booker, though he’s not really sure why.

…

They find a place. It’s a gorgeous newer house in the country with views of the distant mountains and plenty of space. It’s not isolated, but it feels like it. Their own little slice of privacy and paradise.

A home. For as many who want it, and for as long as they need.

Four bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Open layout. Big kitchen. Fenced for horses, though that’s perhaps a longer commitment than they should really be taking on. An option though.

By the time they move in a month later, Booker and Keane have established a routine. During the day, they’re just like any other two men. They read. They shop. They argue about furniture colors and wall art. And at night they share a bed. Wrapped up in each other’s warmth and comfort.

It’s nice.

And frustrating.

And on some level, strangely infuriating.

Booker’s not sure what he wants. 

If he wants to make a move and see where this goes.

If he’s content to have a friend and cuddle-buddy.

If he wants to kiss Keane so desperately it makes his palms itch.

If he wants to feel his bare skin slide against the other man’s.

If he wants morning wood to stop being awkward and start being… something else.

But he doesn’t know what Keane wants either.

He hasn’t said.

Hasn’t made a move.

Seems content to just be. And snuggle.

There is a lot to do. Arrangements to make. Money to transfer. Utilities to get hooked up. Furniture to purchase.

But not so much it doesn’t niggle in the back of Booker’s mind.

Or the forefront.

…

They take possession of the house. Get the furniture moved in. Buy groceries.

Get everything ready for the others, whenever they decide to come.

And then, a month after their arrival in Calgary. A month of holding back. Booker starts drinking again.

It starts with just one.

A sip here and there.

Inside a week he’s back to carrying the flask around with him.

Keane eyes it sideways at first, without comment.

Then scowls.

And eventually just leaves the room every time he catches Booker at it.

Until one night when Booker comes to bed and-

Keane’s not there.

And neither is any of his stuff.

His bag. His clothes. His books. Gone.

It leaves the room feeling strangely bereft.

Booker stares at the empty bed. Seriously considers climbing in and just going to sleep.

Sighs.

Opens the beside table to pull out the bottle he has stashed there.

And does the bravest thing he’s done since they shared that double room after the snowstorm: he goes looking for Keane.

…

It was something he was willing to tolerate at first.

Booker’s allowed to have a vice or two. Everyone does.

But then it escalated. He’d started drinking more and more and more until Keane couldn’t enter a room without spotting it. The bottle. The flask. A whiff of it from his coffee.

This isn’t healthy and Keane doesn’t have to put up with it.

Booker can drink himself to insensibility but Keane doesn’t have to watch. If he’s that hard up for someone to snuggle with at night he can get a dog.

So he finally decides to take one of the three other empty bedrooms in the house. The beds should be comfortable enough. He and Booker bought them together. And tested every one.

Platonically.

Playfully, really. Bouncing their butts on the plastic covering. Laying back. Deliberately squirming around. Complaining about ridiculously tiny details. Then moving on to do the same thing on the next bed. And the next.

They bought different firmnesses so the others would have options.

Keane Goldilockses through the rooms until he finds the one with the medium hardness mattress. Starts shoving things into drawers. Sticks his few books in the bookshelf.

It looks worse with half a dozen books than it did empty.

This doesn’t look like a life any more than it feels like one.

He mutters to himself as he pulls on a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in.

And turns as the door creaks open, a sombre Frenchman with a bottle dangling from his fingers on the other side. “Can we talk?” he asks, chewing on his lip.

Keane waves him in.

…

He sets the bottle on the dresser by the door. Across from the bed and out of reach. Walks over and sits on the foot of the bed next to Keane.

It’s easier to talk when he doesn’t have to look at him.

Booker’s shoulders fall as the air leaves him. “It’s a bad habit,” he finally admits.

Keane grunts, and it sounds like agreement.

“It’s a bad habit I’ve been leaning on for a long, long time because I was trying to keep from remembering how much I needed people.”

And now he’s started drinking again. Telling.

“I don’t want to do that anymore.” The words come out soft. Stuttering.

“Drink? Or keep people at arms’ length?”

“The former is a function of the latter.”

That earns Booker a grin and a shoulder bump. “It’s good that you understand that.”

“Why don’t you?” Booker asks, nodding to the bottle. “I’ve never seen you drink.”

“I told you my parents were killed by a drunk driver?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why. I’d rather never drink a drop, than be responsible for someone losing their family.”

Shit. That’s pretty heavy.

“I don’t blame people for drinking. It’s just not my choice.”

“And me?” Booker asks.

“You’re not drinking. You’re drowning yourself. And I don’t need you to drag me under with you.”

Ow.

Booker barely manages to stifle the urge to rub the heel of his hand against his sternum.

“Where does that leave us?”

Keane sighs. “I don’t like ultimatums. But you said why you do it. So what do you want more? Connection, or familiarity.”

“The bottle’s over there. And I’m here.”

“Need some help dumping that out?”

Booker takes a long breath. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one feels a little strange compared to the rest. It'll lighten up in a bit.
> 
> I love you all and thanks for the best wishes! My ankle's feeling better. I'll see on Friday how badly I wrecked it.


	19. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not drinking is not easy for Booker.

Dumping the bottle is easy. Turn-tip-glug.

Glug.

Glug.

Until all that’s left is a depressing dribble and the finality of the emptiness left behind.

Choosing to not pick another up turns out to be much, much harder.

Keane keeps the other room. 

But he goes back to join Booker in his that night. After that bottle and every other one Booker will admit to gets poured down the drain.

After coffee and silence.

After Booker reaches for Keane’s hand, pausing just short of taking it.

After Keane closes the distance of those last few centimeters, wrapping his fingers around Book’s.

After Booker tugs him along in his wake and lays down facing Keane. He thanks him, without elaborating on why.

“You’re welcome,” Keane says as he pulls him in and tucks his chin over Booker’s disheveled hair. As he cards his fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp. “It means something. That you chose to come find me. It means something.”

It takes everything Booker has to stifle the sob that boils in his chest at those words.

That he understands. He gets that it was a choice. And not an easy one.

But here? Now? With Keane’s lips pressed to the top of his head? It feels like the right one.

…

Days later after endless morning jogs and too much time inside his own head, it doesn’t anymore.

Nothing feels like the right anything.

There’s a pressure building in his head and his chest and it feels like just a sip would be enough to ease it.

Every step down the gravel driveway vibrates in his head like a gong and he stares daggers at Keane’s back.

Every quiet moment of nothingness claws at the inside of his eyeballs.

His hand aches for that familiar curve of metal.

And then he glances at his phone. October 11. Shit. Well that explains it.

She died tomorrow.

He goes outside to chop some wood. Do something. Anything. To keep from getting in the Jeep and driving to town and drowning this ache like he has for centuries.

It feels good.

The strain.

The swing. 

The crack as the wood splits.

He’s sweating in minutes and has to peel off the flannel jacket he was wearing.

And the denim shirt underneath.

And the t-shirt under that is sort of sticking.

All details he registers on some subconscious level as he works out his stress and grief.

Details Keane registers on a _very conscious level._

Because that.

Is easily the sexiest thing he’s ever seen Booker do.

And he is entirely clueless about the fact he’s being watched.

And likely would not appreciate Keane’s appreciation.

Pity.

There are a lot of things Keane’s picturing doing to him and none of them are remotely appropriate and he thinks he’s officially crossed a line into something he’s not sure the man in question even wants.

Dammit.

He goes back into the house to go lift some weights in the gym.

Or maybe take a cold shower.

…

Booker finds him there in the gym, an hour later. Having chosen the weights over the shower.

He could always take a cold shower after.

Chopping wood wasn’t enough. Book needs to _punch_ something. The heavy bag in the basement is his best option.

Or it is until he sees sweat-drenched muscle flexing and while on another day he might have had a different reaction entirely, today it just makes him angry.

His jaw flexes as he strips down to his underwear in full view of a man who might very well have injured himself with that weight bar if he didn’t have the presence of mind to set it down to watch.

Booker doesn’t make a show of it.

Or maybe he does.

There’s plenty of bathrooms and bedrooms in the house where he could have stripped out of his sweaty shirt and filthy jeans.

But instead he’s doing it here.

He doesn’t stop to show off once he’s down to boxer briefs, snagging his shorts and sleeveless tee and yanking them on before stalking to the bag.

“You look like you’re raring for a fight,” says Keane, eyes narrowing. “Want a more… responsive… opponent?”

Booker freezes and Keane watches the muscles in his shoulders and back tense as he considers.   
Finally, he turns. “Yeah. Actually, I do.”

Keane cocks his head. Looks Booker up and down. “Let’s take this outside,” he says. Something tells him this one could make a mess. No need to put holes in their spiffy new house.

Booker heads for the stairs without comment, leaving Keane to follow.

They square off on the lawn out front. Both barefoot. Booker’s too-long hair falls across his eyes as he glares at the man facing him. He drags a hand through it, temporarily forcing it into submission.

And then launches himself at Keane.

…

This isn’t like their other sparring matches.

There’s no testing each other. No careful assessment of each shift of weight. Each eye movement. Of the other’s breathing.

No, this is sheer rage given flesh. Brutal swings of fists, careless of the damage they could do.

To either of them.

After Booker’s initial salvo of tackling Keane around the middle and a couple good (and highly painful) kidney shots, Keane grits his teeth. Rolls his shoulders.

And gives everything he’s got.

Keane’s a better fighter. Has more formal training in hand to hand fighting. Has put in the time and effort to develop clean, precise movements.

But Booker’s had two and a half centuries of fighting for his existence against an unassailable foe inside his own head. And it’s made him _mean_.

And since they’re already there beating the ever-living shit out of each other, Keane decides to funnel a little stress into the match too.

It’s not pretty. Hard swings and bodies crashing into the turf. Heads snapping around and bloodied knuckles.

A dislocated kneecap.

A dislocated shoulder.

A broken collarbone that Keane doesn’t stop for, so why should Booker?

It only takes a minute to heal anyways.

And it’s good practice. For later when knowing how to fight through the pain could potentially save a life. So Keane fights through the staggering pain and the absolutely disgusting feeling of his bone realigning itself and knitting back together.

But now they’re getting tired.

Swings flail wide. Their feet slip in the grass.

Booker lurches his feet and takes a hard lunge at Keane for the dozenth time. But Keane’s had enough. He sidesteps the grab and clotheslines Book hard across the throat, leaving him gasping up at a too-blue sky, watching fluffy clouds meander their way across.

Keane collapses down next to him, ungracefully on his back.

“Please tell me you’re done,” he begs.

“And if I’m not?” Booker croaks out.

“Then go beat up that bag.”

Booker nods, but doesn’t respond.

They lay there for long minutes as their breathing slows and the sweat cools on their skin.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” Keane finally asks.

It takes Booker a while to respond.

“She died tomorrow,” he says, voice catching.

A warm hand presses into Booker’s, weaving fingers between his and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry,” Keane says.

Something stings at the back of Booker’s eyes. “You’d think it would get easier after a couple centuries.”

“Not so much,” Keane replies evenly. “It’s easier until it’s not. Grief stays the same. Just doesn’t hit as often.”

Booker rolls up on one elbow to search his face. “How-?”

There are tears shining in Keane’s dark eyes too. “October fifteenth is the anniversary of the accident my parents died in.”

Four days from now.

…

It’s not really a decision either of them make.

Just a connection so strong and so real in the moment that neither can deny what comes next.

And it’s Booker that closes the distance.

As it always should have been.

He leans down. Cups the back of Keane’s neck.

The tears escape, trailing down his cheeks. As dry parted lips finally learn what it’s like to taste the smile they’ve been yearning for these past weeks.

Keane wasn’t smiling before.

He’s smiling now.

And Booker can _feel_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. That happened.
> 
> Comments?


	20. Somewhere We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the anniversary of Booker's wife's death. Time for a little distraction.

Keane didn’t see this coming. He thought the fight was just catharsis. A chance to work out the strain and frustration of Booker losing his favourite unhealthy coping mechanism.

It was catharsis for Keane too, as the grief of losing his parents encroaches with the coming of Booker’s anniversary.

But this? This is… something else.

He doesn’t even think, once Booker’s lips touch his. He drags him down and in, fisting his hands in Booker’s sweat-drenched shirt and darting his tongue out to taste Booker’s bottom lip.

The next thing he knows they’re kissing each other wet and heavy with a ferocity that’s almost startling, despite the fight that started it.

Somewhere along the line Keane rolls them so he’s half on top of Booker, pinning him down and tasting him until they both realise they forgot to breathe and break away to stare wide-eyed, gasping for air.

Booker’s entire existence just shifted and he’s still staggering from it and not quite thinking straight.

Keane wouldn’t admit it, but so is he.

Kissing is a normal thing, for him. Kissing someone he’s realising he’s developing _feelings_ for? That’s something else entirely.

Something terrifying.

There’s a reason he sticks with temporary: it saves time and trouble later.

And the man who kissed him? Left him breathless and reeling and who is currently under Keane right this moment?

He’s either the best or the worst kind of trouble.

Very likely both, actually.

“Was that-?” Booker finally asks, not quite looking at Keane.

“I kissed you back,” Keane deadpans.

“I know that you’re very… About consent…”

Keane sighs, shaking his head. “Some things can be inferred and you know me well enough to know I’d _at the very least_ tell you if you did something I didn’t like.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Keane cups his cheek. Smiles. “And I _enjoyed it_. I’d very much like a repeat but you and I are filthy and covered in sweat and there’s blood on both of us. We need to take showers,” Keane points out. “Separately.”

Part of Booker is disappointed by that last word. But most of him is relieved. That kiss was a big step for him and he’s not sure he wants to take any more quite yet.

He needs to sit with this one for a while before jumping into more.

Keane eases off him and lurches unsteadily to his feet. Reaches down to offer Booker a hand up.

He takes it. And then doesn’t let go when he reaches his feet.

Keane quirks a brow as he looks down at their joined hands. Then shrugs and turns towards the house, tugging Booker along behind him.

…

They’re subdued after that. Taking separate showers and getting changed into clean clothes.

Keane makes it to the kitchen first, and he turns from the stove to hand Booker a hot, fresh cup of coffee as he joins him.

Booker smiles, a soft, almost shy thing as he takes it, dipping his head to take a sip.

Keane goes back to cooking pasta at the stove, his own mug steaming and in reach.

“So,” he says without turning around. “We kissed.”

It’s all Booker can do to not spit a mouthful of coffee all over the island.

His companion waits patiently for him to formulate a response.

“Yeah,” is what he comes up with.

Very eloquent, Booker. Certainly well on his way to Keane throwing himself at him with that romantic speech.

“So. That a one-time thing? An experiment? A mistake?” There’s nothing to indicate that Keane cares about the answer, based on his tone.

Booker knows him better than that.

He said as much not that long ago.

“That was something I’ve wanted to do for a while,” he finally admits.

Something shifts in Keane’s posture. Booker’s watching his back when it happens, and he doesn’t miss it. So. Cared after all.

Keane braces a hand on the counter. “Yeah,” he replies. Maybe he’s been taking romantic speech notes from Booker? “Me, too.”

Okay maybe not.

Something lurches in Booker’s stomach, halfway feeling like it’s trying to claw its way out his throat. Halfway feeling like he’s suddenly grown wings.

Disgusting feeling. Would not recommend.

And yet.

Now Keane turns to glance over his shoulder. “Our emotions are high right now. From grief and uncertainty. We should… be careful. That we don’t go further than we really mean to. In the next few days.”

Shit. He’s right.

And something about those words make the disgusting feeling evaporate. Booker takes a step. And another. Another. And wraps his arms around Keane’s waist, pressing his face between Keane’s shoulders.

A familiar position, when they’re laying down side by side. Beneath covers in the dark.

But this? This is new.

Keane closes his eyes, setting a hand over Book’s. Quietly basking in the touch.

“That means a lot,” Booker says into his back. “That you want… me. But not for the wrong reasons.”

Keane lets those words hang there between them for a few moments. “Did sparring get the urge to drink out of your system? Or is it still riding you?”

Booker steps back, moving to lean a hip against the counter close enough a single step could have them kissing. “It comes and goes,” he admits. “But chopping wood and sparring helped.”

“Good,” says Keane. “We should come up with a plan for tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“Tomorrow is the anniversary of your wife’s death. Am I wrong in assuming your usual plan is to pickle yourself insensible?”

“…no.” But does he have to say it like that?

“Then we should have a plan. Or you’ll spend the entire day caught between grief and bitterness that you have nothing to numb it.”

…

They make that plan over supper, across the table from each other. Each with a foot stuck out and hooked around the other’s. Maintaining the contact as they lay out what they’ll do to help Booker from going into a tailspin.

And what they’ll do if he does anyways.

…

The day starts, ironically enough, with a run.

Well. It starts with a light breakfast and half a mug of coffee, but they basically wolf that down as they get ready to head out.

The chill that nips at their skin is a reminder of the inexorable approach of winter. 

Sun filters through the mist that’s settled down over the fields, bathing them in the morning’s glow as they head down the long gravel drive.

Booker wonders why he agreed to this bullshit.

Keane doesn’t.

This is how they planned the start of today: moving until Booker’s exhausted. Giving his arms and legs something to do and leaving his brain with little to fixate on while it’s keeping busy whining about the pain and exhaustion in his limbs.

It’s a long, silent run; the only sound their breathing and their footfalls in the gravel.

Distant honking of geese as they make their way south for the winter. Booker’s suddenly envious of them. Why did he choose this wretched cold place again?

Cars along the road some distance away: a soft low hum that fades away like it was never there.

But other than that, silence.

The property’s big enough they can loop around or zigzag through it without ever needing to leave it for that road. It’s better that way. Just the two of them and their pace.

Keane pushes it on purpose, making them both work for this run.

They’re both covered in sweat inside half an hour, peeling off and discarding layers as the morning warms and the mist clears and their temperatures climb with exertion.

And Keane. Keeps. _Going_.

He leads through the fields, soaking their shoes and pantlegs in dew.

Over fences. Through trees. Across a goddamn creek.

That creek is _fucking cold._

It leaves them both sucking air through their teeth as the aching bone-deep chill sets in in seconds and Booker seriously considers just strangling Keane and heading home.

But he doesn’t. They keep going.

For all that their feet are soaked, they warm back up again.

The sun shines warm on their backs as the mist burns off.

And so they run.

And run.

And run some fucking more.

Until Booker’s sure they’re lost beyond all help and they burst through the trees and-

There it is. The house.

He mumbles something unintelligible that’s either thanking or cursing God (Maybe both?) in French.

Keane flashes him a grin and bursts into a sprint.

Booker does not have a sprint in him after two hours of hard running.

He has a shower in him and maybe a nap and definitely a lot of resentment for the Drill Sargent there.

The shower’s already running in the main bathroom as Booker staggers in and kicks off his shoes. Sits down to pry off his sopping socks. Decides _fuckit_ and takes his pants off too, leaving them in a heap by the door as he walks to the next open bathroom in just his underwear and a shirt that’s sticking to him in a way that feels disgusting but somehow makes him resent Keane even more for not sticking around to appreciate it.

He takes a long, long time in the shower.

Just long enough to think that he and Jehanne never took one together. She’d have enjoyed this. Warm water sluicing over their bodies. Hands roaming under the pretense of washing. Emerging warm to massive, soft towels in a warm heated house. 

He turns off the water with a hard jerk of his hand and steps out to roughly towel himself off and-

_Merde._

He forgot to bring clothes to the bathroom with him. Guess it’s time to put on a show again. Assuming Keane’s actually done his shower and is around to enjoy it.

If there’s a pang that he’d be thinking of someone else on the day she died, he stuffs it down. Adds a little more guilt to the existing pile.

Keane is. Around to enjoy it, that is.

He’s back in his favourite spot in front of the stove, barefoot in clean sweatpants and a matching zip-up hoodie. He nearly drops the spoon into the soup as he stares at Book as he casually makes his way to his room.

Yep. _Casually._

Because his heart isn’t racing and he doesn’t have to concentrate on every step to keep from looking back at Keane.

In any case, he makes it to his room without making an entire ass of himself.

He thinks.

Hopes.

Though he can feel the blush well down to his shoulders. 

And he knows Keane could easily see that.

He comes out a few minutes later with damp hair, wearing some plaid flannel lounge pants and a long sleeve shirt.

Keane stares maybe a little too much at Booker’s bare feet as he crosses the floor. And then his hands. Last, at the way his hair curls around his ears. It’s a helluva view altogether.

Keane’s not so bad, himself, though Booker does a lot less ogling as he claims the coffee that’s been poured for him.

It doesn’t take long for the soup to warm up and they stand at the island to eat before loading the dishwasher and moving to the couch to watch a movie. Keane wedges himself into the corner, leaving space at his side for Booker.

Booer snuggles right in under Keane’s raised arm, resting his head on his chest. The steady, strong beat of Keane’s heart a comfort as his blinks get longer and longer and Keane’s hand strokes gently over his bicep.

Booker doesn’t make it twenty minutes into the movie before he falls asleep, and Keane follows not long after.

He does take the time to watch Booker sleep a while. He’s softer at rest. Something like peace in his features; a rare sight when he’s awake. 

But eventually the exertion of the morning catches up with him, too. And he closes his eyes as the movie drones in the background and lets it lull him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. I had a busy few days over the weekend and was exhausted. Then the natural break for this chapter happened way too early and I didn't want the chapter that short so I basically added some of the next one and broke it in a bit of an odd place, just to add some length.
> 
> Personal note: I can actually walk pain-free on my injured foot, so healing is coming along nicely. Thank you to all who wished me a speedy recovery! 
> 
> As always: your comments keep me going.


	21. Sat by the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker's day of mourning continues.
> 
> CW: Brief mention of past stillborn child.

Booker wakes curled into her side. Her arm around him. He stretches, smiling up at-

Sonofabitch.

That is not-

_Fuck._

He worms away, dragging a hand down his face as he makes his way to the bathroom.

Keane mirrors the gesture as he watches him go, making no move to stop him. The retreating back disappears behind a white door.

First comes the silence.

Then the water running.

A soft thud as something hits the floor. Fell. Wasn’t thrown.

And then more silence.

But Booker doesn’t emerge.

Keane gives him a couple more minutes before he gets up, walking over to rest his hand on the door. “Stay or go?” he asks, softly but clearly.

Part of the plan. An agreed-upon signal. A single word to tell Keane what Booker needs; company or space.

An agreement that space comes with a caveat: Keane will check in on him at agreed-upon intervals. Part of this plan was to keep Booker from drinking. Leaving him alone for too long doesn’t accomplish that.

Keane tries not to count his own breaths as he waits for an answer. Presses his forehead to the doorjamb, wanting more than anything to push the door open and just go to him; damn the consequences.

But he didn’t give all those little speeches on consent to run roughshod over Booker’s wishes now. So he waits, feeling his chest grow tighter with each slow inhale.

“Stay,” is the word he finally hears, though it doesn’t come out quite right.

Keane’s breath leaves him all at once as he slides his hand down to test the door. Turns the lever and pushes the door slowly open.

To find Booker on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. Face in his hands. Shoulders shaking.

Keane doesn’t hesitate, moving to kneel bracketing Booker’s legs, cupping his head and pulling it into his chest, hand sliding through the surprising softness of Booker’s hair.

A half-choked sound escapes Book as his hands fall away and he buries his face in Keane’s shirt. As he clenches handfuls of that hoodie. And strong arms come around him, pulling him close and rocking gently back and forth.

“Let it out,” Keane whispers. “I’ve got you.”

A shuddering sigh escapes Booker.

As he does.

He sobs.

Great heaving watery breaths as centuries of suppressed grief come smashing through his walls and pour out of him in a tempest that leaves those walls and the man they protected in shredded tatters.

A sound accompanies it: soft agonised whisper.

Whimper.

Cry.

So quiet.

Like the sound of a diamond dragged across glass.

Scoring it.

Leaving it vulnerable to shatter.

Like the tiniest tap could splinter it into a thousand jagged edges, leaving nothing of what was before.

And so with Keane’s heart.

That sound etches its way through him like broken glass, leaving gaping bleeding furrows in its wake.

Bare and vulnerable and in this moment he’d let it disintegrate just to ease the anguish that is that noise.

Just to offer it a few moments’ balm.

Instead he holds him. Rocks him. Soaks up his tears and more with his hoodie. Presses his cheek to the top of Booker’s head.

Gets Booker’s hair damp.

They stay like that long after Keane’s knees go sore and his thighs start shaking. Long after the keening cry finally subsides.

Until Booker’s hands go limp and he stops hanging on.

For a moment Keane’s heart goes cold in his chest.

Is this where it ends.

And then those hands slowly splay on Keane’s back and his arms tighten around him. A soft word, spoken into the more-than-just-damp of Keane’s hoodie. “Thank-you.”

It takes Keane a moment to form the response. “You don’t ever have to thank me for this.”

Booker nods, raising his head to show red-rimmed eyes and an inflamed nose. He looks. Less than appealing.

It still takes everything Keane has to not kiss him.

They’re both breathing in shaky, shuddering breaths as they clumsily rise to their feet on half-numb limbs. Both wash their faces, standing close beside each other at the sink. Staring at themselves and each other in the mirror.

“It hurts,” Booker says, startlingly blue eyes meeting Keane’s dark through the glass. “Feeling like I’m moving on.”

“If you need time…” Keane replies, saying what needs to be said.

Not what he wants to say.

What his chest claws at him, all but begging him to say.

Keane swallows. “If you need time. Space. Just say so. We can take a step back.”

The emotion in his gaze is clear, though he tries to mask it. These words cost him dearly. But he says them anyways.

Booker turns, dragging him into a hard embrace. “Damn me for a selfish bastard, but please don’t. I need- I want- Stay. Please.”

A startled, relieved chuckle quakes through Keane’s chest. “ _My_ selfish bastard. I’m not going anywhere.”

Those words warm Booker to his very core.

…

Keane changes his shirt, tossing the damp tear-stained one into the hamper. 

They layer up in jackets and toques and gloves and boots. 

Each loads up an armload of firewood and they carry it down the trail they ran before, to where the creek flows out of the trees, down a little hill and through a field. 

They find stones from the edge of the creek, fishing them out with bare hands and hissed expletives.

They lay the stones in a circle and scrape away the grass around it with their knives. Whittle shavings off a piece of firewood until there’s a good layer and then set a few small pieces of wood in the ring.

Booker uses a flint and steel to light it, showering the shavings in sparks until one takes and then he breathes on the little flames until they become bigger flames, licking at the wood.

He carefully nurses the fledgeling fire until it catches properly. By then Keane’s spread a blanket by the stone just a few feet away. The stone’s big enough they can lean their backs against it to sit by the fire. 

Beyond the fire, there’s a view of the little trickling (and fucking cold) creek as it meanders down the hill. Past that, the field and more trees in the rolling foothills beyond. Finally, etched against the sky: the jagged snowcapped peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

Booker moves to sit on the blanket next to Keane and they stare into the flames without speaking.

Keane opens the thermos. Pours out steaming liquid and offers it to Booker, raising it a little in toast. “To Jehanne,” he says. “Always loved. Forever remembered.”

Tears spring into Booker’s eyes and he takes a sip of a liquid very different from what he’s used to toasting the memory of his long-dead and ever-beloved wife: hot chocolate.

He chuckles into the mug. “She’d have loved this. My drinking chocolate in her memory.” By a creek. She loved to fish.

“Glad you finally made your way around to it then.” Booker hands the mug back and Keane takes a drink.

“Me, too.” He leans his shoulder into Booker’s.

They talk. They talk until after the sun’s disappeared and the chill’s set back in and the thermos is done.

Booker tells Keane about the wife who died of a fever at the age of 53. The wife who knew her husband no longer aged and could heal any injury and somehow didn’t begrudge him that, even as she faded and the illness took her. 

Such a stupid, tragic way to die. So preventable now.

He tells him of their three sons, and the daughter who didn’t survive her birth.

Tells him of the anger and fear he saw in the face of his youngest as he died. The awful things hurled at him by a man wasting away too young and desperate for something to save him. What looked like hate and was perhaps just fear of the unknown. 

Perhaps the way it ended didn’t destroy what came before.

In any case, he and his older brothers who perished before are with their mother now. All looking down on him with…

Who knew what.

He tells him of his grandchildren. Sons of his sons who looked so much like their fathers Sebastien Le Livre couldn’t bear to stay to watch them grow.

Booker’s granddaughter named for her father’s sister who was born but they never had the blessing of knowing.

Celeste.

He’d left with the others like him. The other immortals. His new family. Left his old behind.

Well. Not entirely. Over the years he’s found ways of ensuring they were taken care of, financially, if nothing else. 

To this day he keeps tabs on them without being invasive about it. And arranges for ‘scholarships’. Buys houses and finds ways to list them where only his progeny will find the ad. Sells them for less than they’re worth. Arranges for ‘inheritances’ from ‘long-lost relatives’.

The two men toast every one Booker can remember the name of, long after there’s nothing left to toast with and they’re raising an empty mug. They stay by the fire until the last piece of firewood has burned down to nearly nothing. Quench the coals with water collected from the newly dubbed Fucking Cold Creek in the empty thermos.

And walk home, each with one arm around the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week was so busy I barely wrote for three days straight. I hated it. So I wrote this whole thing last night and now you get another one less than a week later.
> 
> I really love how this one played out. I hope you did too.


	22. An Empty Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker's Day of Mourning takes an unexpected turn.

They remain quiet as they step into the house.

Subdued as they toss a frozen pizza in the oven and Keane puts the kettle on for tea.

Words feel unnecessary after all they shared earlier. Now feels like the time for silence.

Every so often as they move around each other in the house Booker’s hand flexes or he reaches for his pocket. Every single time, Keane sees and reaches for him, sliding his hand where the bottle lived for so long Booker’s hand feels empty without it.

Warmth where cold sat. Something that can hold him too. An anchor instead of endless sea.

This was not part of the plan. Not discussed the previous night that seems so far in the past now.

But it feels right, for Keane.

And for Booker?

It feels so right he wonders how he survived so long without it.

That calloused palm and those strong fingers feel so much better than cold curved metal or glass.

Though they don’t kiss this time, he’s starting to crave warm lips and hurried breaths more than the burn of amber down his throat.

Now is the time for care. For caution. For him not to trade one addiction for another.

He could so easily fall into this man like he fell into the bottle.

To use him as a crutch.

Keane deserves better than that.

And if Booker wants to move on. Really move on, from the loss of his family. From the bottle. From the thought life isn’t worth living. He’s going to have to learn how to stand on his own two feet.

Keane deserves an equal. Not someone who needs to lean on him.

And Booker needs to learn how not to lean. Or how not to lean all the time, at least. To be strong enough to let Keane, or others, do some leaning too.

Keane’s not stupid. He feels the difference.

He turns. Searches Book’s face without letting go of his hand. “What is it?” he asks softly.

“I-“ Booker says, eyes luminous. “I really want this. Us. To work.”

“Me too,” Keane replies, voice soft. And says no more. Leaves space for Booker to continue. There’s a weight in Booker’s gaze, and Keane waits for the rest.

“But I don’t think it can. Because I don’t think I can- Not like-“ He swallows. “Not as I am now. I can’t just go from being a raging alcoholic to being in my first relationship in two hundred years. It can’t work. Because I can’t be a partner right now. Not a good one.”

Bloody buggering hell, Keane thinks to himself. He did too good a job of this and wrote himself right out of it before it started, didn’t he.

But he nods anyways. Because Booker’s not wrong.

Tears spill over, trailing down Booker’s cheeks to lose themselves in his beard as he reaches up to cup Keane’s face. “You mean too much to me to fuck this up by jumping in with both feet before figuring out me first.”

His thumbs catch the trickle of wetness that escapes Keane’s eyes and he stares deep into those eyes as the man nods again. Keane seems oddly lost for words. Unlike him; the man who always knows the right thing to say.

“I’m a selfish jackass, but I’m trying not to be. So I won’t ask you to wait. I can-“ The words lose themselves behind the ball in Booker’s throat. He swallows and tries to continue. “I can’t expect you to be alone while I figure this out.”

Though the thought of Keane’s strong hands on another man does things to Booker he’d rather not think about.

The same hands hanging limply by his sides right now. Nothing to hold onto.

“When,” Keane finally manages to get out. “When did you figure this out.”

“Just now. You’ve. You’ve been so perfect today. Incredible. Everything I needed. And. If I want this to work. I need to be everything I need, too. And then everything you need. I. I don’t think I can do that now. I need time to learn.”

They stare, silent. Watching those tears fall. Feeling an ocean of unspoken words hang between them. Perhaps now, forever unsaid.

“Proud of you,” Keane finally manages to push out and Booker can’t resist anymore. He closes the distance to kiss Keane desperately because he doesn’t know when-

_If._

He’ll ever get to kiss him again.

Keane kisses him with the desperation of a drowning man.

Not trying to make Booker stay. Trying to give himself something to remember.

To tide himself over until next time.

If there is a next time.

Or if the next time is another man.

He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“I’m going to try to make my way back to you,” Booker promises when they finally slow, and slip apart. 

He can barely see past the tears now so he can’t see how Keane’s face is crumpling.

Keane manages a soft, watery smile. “By the time you’re done you might not want to anymore. And that’s okay. You deserve to be with someone who makes you happy when the time comes.”

Even if it’s not him.

Booker’s hands slowly fall away and Keane’s the one who steps back. “Come get me if you feel like you need to drink,” he insists. “I’m still your friend. You don’t have to be alone in that.”

“Thank you,” Booker says.

Almost as one, they both inexorably turn away.

…

They each hold it together until they make it back to their respective rooms.

Booker feels… empty. All that grief for Jehanne and the plan and the day has left him hollowed out. He lays on his side and stares at the wall for long minutes until his eyes finally close and restless sleep takes him.

Keane feels everything. This thing wrapped around the traitorous beast in his chest, constricting tight like cables. Digging in with every breath and leaving him gasping.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

He wasn’t supposed to get attached to the idiot who barely knows he’s attracted to men. 

Keane doesn’t _get_ attached. Because when you get attached, they can leave. They can die. They can leave a gaping hole in you that you can’t ever patch no matter how hard you try and how long you pretend.

He was supposed to-

Keane wraps his arms around himself, curled in the middle of his bed on top of the covers.

He doesn’t know where he thought this was leading. 

He’d thought it was nowhere.

It wasn’t.

It was everywhere.

It became everything.

He never expected it to end here.

With his heart bursting out of his chest, screaming in pain.

And him as he’s always been:

Alone.

…

Booker never saw it coming. He’d been having fun. Enjoying this budding… _thing_ with Keane. Enjoying having arms around him again.

Blessed by Keane’s support in helping him find healthy ways to mourn. Helping him find healthy ways to everything, really.

The realisation hit him like a plane falling from the sky.

Out of nowhere. 

And he’d known, right then and there: it would never work if they kept going the way they were going. If he really wanted a chance to be happy with Keane, long term, he’d have to make this change right now. While he still had the courage to.

But all that logic and knowing he’s right doesn’t make it hurt any less.

And sleeping alone after sleeping next to him so long feels… _empty_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... that happened. And I didn't see it coming. I didn't plan it. I didn't know it was going to happen until Booker figured it out. He figured it out before I did. I feel gutted.
> 
> This is not the end. I promise that though it might take a while (I have no clue. We're in entirely uncharted territory here.) I will get you (and Booker and Keane) back to a happy ending. No hurt without comfort. Only angst with a happy ending.
> 
> Comments?


	23. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the others have been up to.

It started with dreams of her in the water. Of drowning. Gasping for air and clawing the cold metal until her fingernails tore off while she choked. Over and over and over again.

And then it was rising. Free. Drowning again, but without the metal. Light, growing brighter and brighter. 

Her face touching the air again and her lungs expelling five centuries worth of water.

It feels like the entire ocean passes her lips between those aching glimpses of breath.

Until it finally stops and air. Blessed air. Wheezes in and out. Flows.

The moon glints off the water. Beautiful.

And lonely. Adrift in the sky as the tiny woman in the water.

For days. Hungry. Thirsty.

Dying slowly this time.

Dying and waking and sleeping and waking and the sun beating down and the waves rising as the rain slashes in almost sideways and lightning strikes everywhere.

And then out of those crashing waves, sudden and shocking. Something massive and impossible. And then a little orange thing. Tiny. Insignificant. But. It floats. She grabs on and the rope she didn’t see hauls her towards the metal beast she knows is a ship but is somehow stunned by anyways. There are little things sticking out of the side. A ladder. She climbs on shaking limbs, to flop onto the deck and doesn’t even get the chance to look around before there are arms around her and a voice barely heard over the storm.

A voice so familiar.

Only heard through the ears of the Frenchman. And then the American. (What is America anyways?)

And now by her own.

Strong arms help her to her feet and something is thrown over her back, keeping the rain off. She laughs at the ridiculousness of trying to keep her dry after she’s been in the ocean for centuries.

That’s impossible to believe, but she’s heard them say it in dreams enough. Seen the changes.

Warm water at the turn of a knob. Knowledge at one’s fingertips. Travel through metal beasts with wheels or wings.

Speech from who knew how far away from a little box held to the ear.

Much time has passed.

It doesn’t feel like centuries.

It feels like millennia.

And now, after it is over? Seconds.

Or a terrible dream.

They help her inside the ship. It’s… warm.

Quynh is naked. She has been for a long, long time. But Andromache throws a towel around her shoulders and that’s even warmer.

Yusuf runs down a flight of stairs and out of sight while Nicolo hovers close.

A man she vaguely recognises from dreams stands at the wheel, holding the ship steady in the storm.

And the New One watches. “Hi,” she says with a little wave. 

Quynh does not respond. Her lips have forgotten how to form words.

That night Quynh wakes clawing. Punching. Fighting.

Nicolo. ‘Nicky’. Takes the brunt. She scratches furrows down his face. And stares on in horror.

He heals quickly enough. Cups her cheek and whispers forgiveness and apology and thanks and guilt and love in the language he always speaks when he is upset. His own. His first.

Andy slept elsewhere. She has somehow become mortal.

Quynh doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

So much has happened in such a short time. Two new ones. The exile of the other. His subsequent un-exile. ‘Andy’s mortality.

She doesn’t know how to feel about any of it.

Food is excellent, though she can barely tolerate salt.

Clothing is much improved in fit and comfort. She makes a habit of wearing whomever’s clothing she finds most comfortable, regardless of ownership.

Andy and Nicky seem to find this endearing. Joe finds it perturbing. Especially where Nicky’s hoodies are concerned.

Andromache’s arms around her are something she barely believes is real. But the more she feels them, the easier it is to believe it.

She missed her lover.

They have not returned to what they were.

Quynh is still a danger to Andy. She hates that, and understands how Nicky and Joe insist on staying by her side at all times. Even if she sometimes misses having quiet by herself.

But Andy is never far away.

Their words feel foreign and difficult to understand.

Her own words do not come easily and rarely in language the others comprehend.

Even Andromache takes a while to remember the tongue they both once spoke as easily as the language of each other’s bodies.

They do not pressure her to speak.

The new one has shy, welcoming smiles. She is an easy presence, with no expectations. Quynh likes her.

The man. The one who betrayed them.

Wait.

_One of the ones_ who betrayed them. Is quieter. Warier. He carries the weight of what he did to the others. But he bears it more as responsibility, than guilt.

She can respect that.

And looks forward to the day she can meet the other two.

To stop dreaming of them.

She and her companions climb into the wretched loud metal contraption only days after the men’s hearts turn heavy and bleeding and subdued.

She hasn’t seen all of it. Only snippets. Bits and pieces and arms around each other. Growing closer. And the tearing.

She saw that.

The rending inside and out. The way they stepped apart.

The way they carefully avoided-without-avoiding each other in the days after.

And now?

Now Andromache takes her hand and leads her from the metal beast that somehow carried them over an ocean. Down the steps and into the bracing cold that is an instant shock to the lungs.

It feels good. Different from the water. She thinks it will be easy to remember air and breathing here. The air hurts, but not the same.

The hurt helps.

And two men stand, each in front of a vehicle.

She walks over to Booker first. Flashes a soft smile and is rewarded with a shy one of his own. He is handsome when he smiles.

Not nearly so much as Andromache, but no one is as beautiful as she when they smile. This is fact.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, extending his gloved hand.

She takes it. Squeezes. “It is,” she says. “Finally.” Her hand is reluctant to let go, and she holds his a while. Until finally turning to the newest of them.

He looks far more uncertain, with a hat pulled down over his ears and his collar turned up and his breath puffing the air.

There is a weight in his eyes that has nothing to do with her, and she gets the feeling it takes effort for his gaze not to pull to the man she just stepped away from. His grief sits on his shoulders like a sodden shroud and she finds it difficult to breathe in its presence.

She reaches out a hand. Rests it on his shoulder. Squeezes. Nods.

He nods in return, swallowing hard. “Keane,” he says, voice creaking.

“Quynh.”

“Good to meet you,” he says. “Glad you got out.”

The others watch, feeling there’s something they’ve missed. But it’s cold out and they toss their luggage into the back of the truck and pile into both vehicles, eager to be home and warm.

In time, they will learn the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. Everyone's back and we'll get to see the aftermath of Booker and Keane's ending.
> 
> You guys are awesome. Every single one of you. Thanks for all the comments. Keep 'em coming!


	24. We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keane's having a bad day. But he doesn't have to do that alone anymore. Whether he likes it or not.

Booker and Keane had to do a bit of rearranging when they heard the others were coming. The house has four bedrooms. There are seven people. That means somebody has to share. Even accounting for Nicky and Joe.

They converted the study on the main floor to a bedroom. Bought some single beds, and put two in one of the rooms. Moved one of the queen sized beds downstairs to the entertainment room. Not the best of options but it’s a place to sleep where a person can be left alone, just in case whoever ended up sharing wanted some space.

They moved their things out of the rooms they’d occupied, leaving them in suitcases and boxes in the living room. The house is for everyone. It’s hardly fair for them to make a permanent claim before everyone arrived.

Booker’s driving the Jeep, Keane the truck. There’s no way to fit everyone in one vehicle and even less when you add in the luggage.

Andy and Quynh get in the truck with Keane. Nicky and Joe hop in the back of the Jeep together. Which leaves Nile. She looks back and forth between them before choosing the truck. Quynh’s been mostly stable lately but if she has an episode they’ll need someone who’s not mortal or driving to handle it.

The drive to the house is largely silent, save exclamations on the cold and the snow and the mountains. 

But the undercurrent is there: so much to be said, on all sides.

Centuries to catch up on.

Considerations for Booker’s continuing or not-continuing exile.

An edge of something in the two drivers. Something exists there that didn’t before and it feels like it weighs more than the weeks they had alone should warrant.

Especially since neither seems willing to acknowledge it.

Nile is in love with the house at first sight. Astounded at the sheer size of the property. It’s bigger than some towns she’s been to. And excited to try out the snowshoes and cross-country skis Booker’s procured.

Not to mention: she wants to drive the tractor they bought to clear the driveway with.

Of course she does. 

Nicky and Joe take the biggest room, mostly because everyone all but demands it. Their motivation is twofold: it just makes sense for the couple to have the best room. And it’s the most contained space. Their chances of being overheard in their… activities. Are lessened with them in that room.

An important factor for everyone but the two men, who are little shits and will do their damnedest to be overheard anyways.

Quynh and Andy take the double room. Quynh still wakes up swinging, but she hasn’t tried to kill anyone in weeks. Andy in the other bed should be enough to keep her safe.

Nile takes the study. It has the best windows. 

And Booker and Keane take the remaining two rooms.

…

Fate’s a bitch.

It had to be today, didn’t it?

Keane can’t decide if he appreciates or resents the distraction of the others arriving.

Both. Definitely both.

To be surrounded by people when all you want is to be alone. It’s a special sort of hell and it tears at his insides. He dumps his things in the corner of his new room and goes to bundle up and go… somewhere. There’s plenty of space on the property to just get the fuck away.

Nile notices he seems… off. She goes to ask Booker.

There’s a heaviness in his eyes as he explains it to her. “Today’s the anniversary of the day his parents died.”

All the breath leaves her at once and her gaze takes on the same weight as Booker’s. She knows days like this. Calling them ‘difficult’ is beyond understatement. It’s like reliving it all over again.

Every. Single. Time.

“And we’re leaving him alone?” she asks, only a hint of judgement in the words. She doesn’t know how to do this without her mother and brother by her side. Does Keane really prefer it that way?

“He’s been dealing with it alone for a long time,” Booker replies.

“Yeah but he doesn’t _have to_ anymore.”

Is that a flash of guilt she sees in Booker’s eyes?

“I don’t know that I’m the best person to help,” he admits.

“Why not? You’ve spent enough time together that you know. He told you.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure he’d appreciate my interference right now.”

She plants her fists on her hips and glares. Then turns on her heel and heads for Keane, trying to catch him before he finishes bundling up to head outside. “Talk to me,” she says softly as she approaches.

He sighs and hunches in on himself as he zips up his jacket. “About?”

She reaches out slowly to rest a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Keane looks up and his gaze lingers over her shoulder. She turns to find that Quynh’s quietly joined them, behind her. She still has that soft, grave look on her face. The weight of understanding in her gaze. She steps around Nile and presses her hand to Keane’s chest.

“Help hold it together,” says Quynh.

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I’m used to this. To doing it alone.”

Nile reaches for his hand, hanging on. “You don’t have to be anymore. We’re here.”

His face scrunches up and his mouth twists and it’s all he can do to keep from losing it right there. “I don’t know how.”

“Hot chocolate,” Nile says. “Popcorn. Movie. Snuggles.”

Quynh steps back, letting her hand fall and giving the two of them enough space to talk.

He sort of winces at the last word, and she wonders what he’s missed. “Will you at least let us try?” she adds.

His shoulders slump. “I fucking hate this,” he mutters.

She swallows. “Me, too. This will be the first—”

The first everything. The first thanksgiving-Christmas-birthdays-deathday…

He pulls in for a hard hug. It’s so much easier to give comfort than accept it. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Long as I get to do the same for you.”

She looks up at him, still getting squished. A watery smile spreading over her face. “Deal,” she declares.

Half an hour later finds them all sprawl-mashed on the couch, watching the Princess Bride. Nile has declared it the ultimate comfort movie, and who is Keane to argue?

Quynh has, of course, never seen it. Nor has Andy.

There’s a giant vat of popcorn in Keane’s lap and Nile has her head on his shoulder as they watch. Quynh claimed his other side and she’s snuggled under his arm like this is something they’ve done for years.

It’s odd but nice. That she seems to accept him so easily. And she understands. Maybe better than anyone. He wonders what she saw that’s engendered such empathy despite what he’s done to them in the past.

But he’ll take it.

Andy’s on her other side, holding Quynh’s hand and cackling maniacally at the film. 

On the opposite side of the massive couch is Joe, shoulder pressed into Nile’s, and Nicky’s laying with his head in Joe’s lap and his legs up over the arm of the couch, feet dangling.

Booker considered not joining them. But he thinks his absence would say more than his presence. Plus he loves the movie.

So he just waits until it’s starting and comes to sit on the floor in front of Nile, leaning back into her legs after a glance to check if it was okay. She smiles, sets her hand on his shoulder, and tipps the bowl towards him.

Without really meaning to, he meets Keane’s gaze. 

The soft smile Keane gives him is all the more devastating for being so unexpected. He forgets about the popcorn, resolutely turning to watch the movie and most determinedly _not_ turning back around until after the movie’s finished.

Their presence is unexpected. The warmth against both of Keane’s sides. The laughter all around him. The way Nile squeezes his arm when he goes a little sniffly.

Quynh’s going into gales of snort-laughing at ‘land war in Asia’.

Booker’s solid presence a reminder that he’s still here.

Almost close enough to touch. That part is hard, but Booker made the effort to be here. It counts for something.

In the end having them all there is an unexpected balm to his abraded heart.

Not something he would have ever asked for.

Or even wanted.

But maybe? It’s what he needed.

He doesn’t deserve his new family. But maybe he gets to have them anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure a few of you have noticed I'm borrowing rather heavily from my other fic, Family. It covers a few things I'm claiming are universal. (Like Quynh coming up swinging and her stealing clothes.) If you don't know what I'm talking about, you might want to read it. The fics aren't actually connected, but they cover some of the same subject matter. (Getting Quynh out of the water. Booker's exile and his drinking. Other stuff I'll be getting into later.)
> 
> We're getting close to a thousand comments on this fic. HOW???? (Other than the sheer unmitigated awesome that is you guys. I love you.)


	25. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker's exile is still up in the air. Until it's not. Nile's grief catches up with her.

Booker stands up at breakfast the next morning. All eyes turn to him as his hands fidget and his eyes refuse to linger on any one face. They finally catch and hold on Keane’s shoulder and he sees the man’s nod of encouragement in his periphery.

“I—I don’t know how long you’ll want me to stay, but while I’m here I need your help with something,” he says in slow, stuttering words.

Quynh sets down her fork. “Quit drinking,” she says. Booker needs all the help communicating he can get. Even from a woman who barely remembers English.

“What, for real?” The words escape Joe as though they’ve a life of their own.

Booker nods. Swallows. “Yeah. I—it needs to stop. It’s not healthy and I’ve been clinging to it too long and—I want to do better.”

“We will do whatever you need, to support you in this,” says Nicky, expression serene as usual. And maybe a little proud.

“Having no alcohol in the house will make this easier,” Keane says.

“Yeah you can say that because you don’t drink,” Nile teases.

“Yep,” he says unapologetically, sipping his coffee.

Joe sighs. “Alright we’ll drink off the rest of the wine today.” Terrible hardship, that. What will they do with the five bottles they already have.

There’s a few answering nods. Keeping alcohol out of the house is a sacrifice they’re willing to make. Pouring it down the drain? Not so much.

“What does this mean for the exile?” Nile asks. Keeping alcohol out of the house implies they’re keeping him _in_ it, right?

It might not be her place to say, but she’s part of this too. And his fate means something to her. It means something to all of them. And it’s not exactly fair to leave it hanging over his head. If they’re to cast him out, it would be kinder to do it sooner.

Booker’s shoulders slump as he looks over the table and out the kitchen window. This conversation was always coming. Best get it out of the way now.

Quynh raises her hand. “I vote stay.”

His gaze snaps to hers and there’s something between daggers and mirth shining in her eyes. “Idiot. Fool. Traitor. Hurt Nicky. Hurt Joe.” Now her gaze turns blazing. “Almost killed Andy.” And then something softens. “Not right in the head. Not right in the heart. But ours. Stay. Fix. Heal. Come back from the stupid.”

Joe snorts. Come back from the stupid, indeed. “Yeah, fine, he can stay,” he says.

Booker stares at him, frankly shocked. He was the last person Booker expected to let this go.

Joe’s eyes narrow at him. “Don’t think this means you’re forgiven. It’s not that easy. You can’t take back what you did. It happened. Some of us still bear the scars.”

Neither looks at Andy, but both know what he’s talking about.

Nicky’s hand slides into Joe’s, fingers weaving together. “If my husband can be willing to give you this chance, so can I.”

He makes a difficult thing sound simple. But he has his own forgiven betrayals. A long, long time ago. Nicolo is no stranger to atonement. And to being forgiven.

“Y’all know how I feel,” says Nile.

Which just leaves Andy.

She considers Booker a while, and it’s all he can do to not wither under the weight of her gaze. 

“You betrayed us,” she finally says. “We could all have ended up like Keane. If not for Nile, we might still be there. Getting pieces cut off. Being tortured. For _science_. How long do you think until they’d have decided to split us up?”

Joe’s and Nicky’s hands clench hard around one another and they both shift closer to each other.

“How long until it would have been impossible to rescue all of us because we’d have been scattered across the world? How long until they started testing how we respond to death? Cutting us in half and seeing which half dies and which grows back? Crushing one of us to see if we wake while we’re still crushed or come back when the weight is lifted?”

Booker shrinks under each new possibility. “That was never—”

She raises a hand. “I know. But it’s the reality of what you nearly succeeded at. And it must be considered.”

Booker’s already mentally packing his bags. “So where does that leave us?” he asks softly.

A chair scrapes along the tiles as Keane stands. “You go, I go,” he says. “With you. I’m not asking you to—” To reverse his earlier decision. About them. “But you won’t be alone.”

It’s not intended as a guilt bomb, but it sure feels like one from Booker’s side. He blinks away tears. “Okay,” he says.

“Sit down,” Andy says with a scowl. “Both of you. Nobody’s going anywhere.”

Keane sits back down with a thump.

Booker lowers himself slowly into his chair.

“I wanted you to know the cost. That having you here _costs us_. We love you and we want you here, but what you did hurts. I needed you to know that. I need you to understand that letting you stay despite what you did means we _love_ you. So much. Don’t throw that away, Book. If you’re staying, we need you all-in.”

“I am,” he says. “I have been for a while.”

She stands. Walks around the edge of the table. Pulls him to his feet and into a hug. “Welcome back, Book.”

He plants his face on her shoulder as sobs wrack his frame.

“Oh, fuckit,” says Nile, rising to join them. Wrapping her arms around Booker from behind and turning his sobs of relief into sobs of laughter. 

Joe’s concession is poking Booker in the hip with a single finger. That only makes him laugh harder.

The last straw that has them all joining in is Quynh’s declaration: “No hugs. Too squishy.”

Apparently her threshold for group hugs is three.

And yes, she laughs every bit as hard as the rest.

…

American Thanksgiving is not something any of them have ever celebrated.

Canadian Thanksgiving passed somewhere around the time Booker and Keane spent the night trying not to freeze to death in each other’s arms.

Though it did give them plenty to be thankful for at the time.

Normally none of them would care about Thanksgiving, but now they have a Nile.

Nile’s celebrated the holiday with her mom and her brother every year except the last two, when she was stationed overseas. And with the date creeping up, it’s all she can think about.

She doesn’t mention it though. Just gets quieter and more reserved as time passes. Retreats into herself. Smiles less. Cracks fewer jokes.

Nicky’s the one who connects the dots, and hatches the plan.

He and Keane research the meal requirements. Most of it is simple fare and easy enough to arrange.

They manage to keep it a secret, right up until the day before.

The turkey’s sort of a giveaway.

“What… what is this?” she says as she spies it thawing in the kitchen sink.

“Label says turkey,” Joe quips from where he’s pouring a cup of his namesake.

“Yes I know it’s a turkey. _Why_ is it a turkey?”

“Could ask the same of you,” he replies, grinning impishly.

Her eyes go luminous. “You guys didn’t—you aren’t—”

“And what if we are?”

She launches herself into his arms, sniffling mightily.

Traditional American Thanksgiving dinner is a relatively simple affair for an experienced cook.

All but for one thing. A seasoned cook does not a good baker make.

And Nicky is the poster child for this.

The man can cook anything.

But he could mess up brownies.

Rice krispie squares.

Chocolate chip cookies.

If it requires baking, it’s beyond him, for some strange reason.

And pie is _far_ more complicated than any of the above.

He does try. Valiantly and bravely and utterly expletive-laden. In at least five different languages.

The kitchen is a disaster by the time he’s done in the attempt.

He and it are covered in flour. His face is reddened and the fine sheen of sweat is caking the flour to his skin in an itchy paste.

The tragic pie shell turns out to be some newly-discovered type of concrete, and the pumpkin filling is soup. It is an utter disaster and the sight of it has Nile folded over the kitchen island cry-laughing and wheezing for air.

Nicky seems slightly insulted by that until Joe takes him by the hand and leads him back to their bathroom to clean him up. They’re rather loud at that and he emerges clean and smiling and relaxed about an hour later with his savior trailing along smirking behind him.

In the meantime Booker has taken initiative to clean up the mess, Nile has set the table, and Keane has taken over supervising the meal.

It’s been a hard day for Nile. She misses her family terribly. But Booker found pictures of them on social media and Nicky had them printed and framed for her so she has them standing on her dresser in her room. It’s not the same as having them here. Nowhere near. But it feels like having them close. Remembering.

Joe spends the morning teaching her basic sketching techniques before he and Nicky take her snowshoeing out over the fields. It’s chilly but the activity keeps them warm and helps keep the sadness from completely overtaking her. Keane’s waiting with fresh soup and hot chocolate when they return.

They watch the Princess Bride after while Nicky wrestles with the pie. She finds herself wedged between Booker and Keane while Quynh makes a nuisance of herself in the kitchen and the other two boys pass out in each other’s arms on the other side of the couch.

Andy’s oddly separate from it all. Odd until you notice that she’s taking it all in. Her newly-expanded family being a family. And perhaps a little overwhelmed with gratitude for having all of them. Most especially Quynh. There together.

They eat until they’re sated and overstuffed, leaning back and patting their bellies and if Nile’s more than a little teary through the meal nobody blames her for that. 

She might not be the only one who gets teary. They all have their days where the grief catches up, and this is a reminder. Plus they feel her pain. Share in it. Because family.

After that, thanksgiving is an event they never skip. And celebrate at whatever time of year (or multiple times a year) they feel like. Today, even beneath the sadness, it feels like there’s a lot to be thankful for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was bored so I wrote an entire chapter this morning. Enjoy!
> 
> This chapter should push the comment total over 1k. That is astonishing and thank you so much for getting us here. Plenty more to come!


	26. Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker brings home a surprise that not even he intended.

Quitting drinking isn’t easy for Booker.

Nothing is, really. 

Having Keane close but not close enough.

Being surrounded by the rest.

Facing his grief.

Facing the pain of the others.

Being welcomed back. Or at least, accepted.

The weight of that feels even heavier than the exile did.

So much expectation.

It makes his hands itch for a bottle.

He runs a lot. The cold and the ache in his lungs and legs helps numb that feeling.

He still hates it, but that somehow helps?

Sometimes he has company, sometimes not.

Sometimes it’s Nicky, if Booker wakes too early and can’t get back to sleep. Nicky often has that problem.

If it’s later in the morning, Nile or Keane. Or both.

As it gets colder, they buy a couple treadmills. Some days it’s just not worth going outside for.

In case no one told you: Canada can get fucking cold in the winter.

And in Canada, any season can turn to winter almost without warning.

Some runs are just up and down the driveway. Or along the side of the road. Others are along the trails on the property. That gets harder as the snow piles up.

After that there’s snowshoeing. Cross-country skiing.

It’s been a long, long time since Booker’s spent any amount of time outside just… being. It’s nice. Long as he bundles up enough.

His psychological reaction to the cold is startling in its vengeance if he doesn’t dress properly.

Freezing to death will do that to you.

He reads, too. Watches movies, usually with Nile or Quynh, or both.

Quynh is fascinated with the medium, though it’s nigh-on impossible to watch anything without answering a constant stream of questions. Mostly because she’s not quite sure what’s real and what’s made up.

He reads.

In fact, it’s a trip to town to go second-hand bookstore hunting that gets him into trouble of a sort he’d never have expected, anticipated, or prepared for.

Booker’s head’s ducked, hood pulled up against the blowing snow and he’s seriously regretting the restless energy that drove him out of the house this morning. What the hell possessed him to venture out in this wretched weather?

A sweat-drenched man in shorts and a stuck-to-his-torso muscle shirt possessed him.

Or the urge to grab said man by that shirt and kiss him within an inch of his life.

Booker had all but fled after all of three seconds of that view. And it had taken all the willpower he possessed to drive by three bars on his way here instead of stopping at one and punishing his liver until he forgets the sight.

Instead he drives to a run-down part of town after a brief search on his phone, and goes to one of the city’s remaining used bookstores.

The hood and the snow and his desire to get out of the cold have him opening and pushing through the wrong door.

A bell jingles as he steps inside and stomps the extra snow off his boots.

And then he’s assaulted by a miniature badger.

Or climbed by a fuzzy snake with feet.

He looks down, bemused, as it claws its way up his jeans and climbs up his coat to curl around the back of his neck, turning to chitter at the person currently running out from behind the counter. 

“Felix!” she whisper-scolds as the critter continues scolding right back.

Booker’s in love at first… whatever this is.

“Miscreant little escapist,” she mutters as she reaches for him, a look of longsuffering affection in her eyes. She meets Booker’s gaze. “I am so sorry. Let me just take him and I’ll stuff him back in the cage. He’s not happy unless he shows us how smart he is and escapes at _least_ once a week.”

She looks all of sixteen years old, with dark eyeliner and pink-and-purple hair, and a nametag that says ‘Haizyl’.

“Is he for sale?” Booker asks.

She gets a peculiarly unhappy look on her face. “Adoption,” she replies. “We don’t sell animals. We help abandoned ones find a home.”

He smiles. “Even better. I take it he’s still searching?”

The young woman nods. “Ferrets are kind of a niche market and we’re a small shop. Most people come here for dog food or cat litter. But we help a local rescue and this guy was getting stressed out at the big pet store. So he came here.”

“Do you have supplies for him?” Booker reaches up to scritch the little guy’s head and gets bit gently and lectured before Felix deigns to allow the affection.

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you take him,” she says, eyes narrowed. 

Booker can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. “Alright where’s an application. How about we see if I meet your criteria.” The corners of his eyes crinkle at the sheer audacity of her, seeing as Booker could literally just walk out with the little guy.

He wouldn’t ever do that, but still.

Her stance eases and she begrudgingly goes back to the counter. “Come back and sit down. Applications are right here. This isn’t a gift?”

Booker shakes his head. “No. For me.”

“Good. Pets as Christmas gifts are a terrible idea.” She seems bound and determined to find him wanting and deny him the animal who’s all but claimed him.

“I know,” he replies as he takes the clipboard and the pen and sits down on the stool she drags from behind the counter for him.

Felix curls up in his pushed-back hood. And goes to sleep.

Booker finishes the application and hands it back to the woman. She reads it over. Asks a few pointed questions. And then snaps pictures of the application on her phone. “Could take days for approval. Could be a few minutes,” she says with a shrug. “You won’t be allowed to leave with him unless approved.”

“Can I take a look around with him in here?” he says, pointing a thumb at his hood.

“Okay,” she says, squinting suspiciously at him.

He wanders until Felix tires of him and begins to stir. That’s when Booker retrieves him and dutifully passes him to the woman. She seems relieved to have her charge back in her arms. “Don’t go anywhere,” Booker says to the little guy. “If all goes well, I’ll be back for you.”

He wonders what Andy will think of having a rodent living with her, and decides the yelling is worth it.

Waves to Haizyl as he steps back into the cold and actually goes into the bookshop.

He has no idea what possessed him to fill out that application. He’s got a stack of books and is halfway to hoping they decline his application when his phone rings. Application approved, apparently. 

There’s an adoption fee, and he pays that plus a sizeable donation to the rescue. That earns him a watery smile from Gatekeeper Haizyl.

And that is how he arrives home late that afternoon in the middle of a blizzard, with a truck full of supplies and a little raccoon-faced ferret named Miscreant.

…

“No,” says Andy the moment she spies the stinky little rat. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. Take that thing back. What possessed you to get it? We _travel._ And I am not living under the same roof as—”

Quynh effectively ends the argument before it even starts, by wandering over to meet the creature, poking a finger into its travel carrier and giggling uncontrollably when it bites her. She opens the crate and it climbs up onto her shoulder to tell anyone and everyone what it thinks of the unceremonious move and the disapproval of its new roommates.

She laughs even harder, until tears pour down her face and she steps up to Andy, framing her cheeks with her hands and pressing her smile to Andy’s frown.

The frown does not last long.

Nor do Andy’s protests.

“Fine,” she says when they finally come up for air. A while and more than a few rumpled clothes later, and a frankly shocked rescue of the poor slinky-with-legs by one Nile who wonders if the little guy’s going to be traumatised by the horrific PDA it was just exposed to, right after moving in.

“Get a room,” she hisses as she clutches Miscreant to her chest.

They do.

And get as loud as a certain other couple while they’re in there.

“Bout time,” Joe declares, not sure quite what set off this chain of events, but he’s willing to let the ferret stay just for getting the ball rolling.

And just like that, they have themselves a pet.

Or, as Andy puts it, “A Miscreant that isn’t Booker.”

Ouch. But also: worth it.

She does say it with a smile. And an arm around her past-and-current lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This monster rarepair has somehow reached 1k comments. That is all thanks to you guys. Every single comment brings a smile to my face. I don't want this to ever end. (And it won't for a while. Promise.)


	27. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keane looks like he's coping better than he is.

This is completely new territory for Keane. All of it.

Ever since he woke with a broken neck his life has just gotten weirder from there.

He has a family. Or a very strange facsimile of one.

Closest thing he’s had since Jacob died. Since he left the Service.

He never thought he’d have that again. 

Didn’t think he _could._

But here he is. Surrounded by people willing to let him be a part of their lives. Who seem to want to be a part of his?

He has no idea how he got here.

And then there’s Booker. That’s a whole other unexpected complication.

Unwelcome? Maybe.

Okay, fine. Probably not.

But he’d have spared himself that pain if he’d seen it coming.

And isn’t that the kicker? He didn’t.

Booker is a complication he had no defense against.

Like a blade in the dark.

One second you’re walking down the street, the next you’re trying to hold your entrails inside your body. Wondering how the _fuck_ you got there.

…

James Duncan Keane would not describe himself as ‘petty’.

Or he wouldn’t have a few weeks ago. 

Still doesn’t now. 

He may have a few roommates who might argue the point though.

He and Booker never really said out loud what they were. Almost were. To the others.

It’s pretty fucking obvious now though.

Because Keane can’t help it.

He can’t help deliberately wearing the tightest pants.

That one shirt that makes Booker half-trip all the time.

Working out at random intervals without warning, so when Booker comes down to the basement he gets an unexpected view of sweat-drenched, muscles-rippling, grunting-with-exertion Keane.

The others have begun to notice.

…

At first Joe thought he was doing it by accident.

For about two days.

Right up until Keane walks by and Booker’s gaze tracks him like a falcon tracking a mouse and Nicky nudges Joe in the side and whispers, “You do that.”

And then Joe looks. And he _sees_.

He sees a certain new immortal in pants that hug his thighs like second skin. In a shirt that looks so soft even Joe can barely suppress the urge to run his fingertips over it. Just to know for sure.

Nicky’s right: Joe _absolutely_ does that. And to impressive effect, if he does say so himself. Nicky would agree. Does, in fact. _Often._

What the hell happened in the two months Booker and Keane were alone together?

…

Andy sees it, almost immediately. Even when the two men were sharing a room there wasn’t the same tension that seems to exist now. Booker didn’t subtly tense every time Keane walked in the room.

Booker’s serious about the not drinking, and Keane is serious about supporting him in that.

He pays attention, and Andy appreciates that.

Keane quietly brings him a coffee if his hands are shaking. Follows, a couple minutes after, when Booker goes off alone. Often returns only a minute or two after. But he checks in.

In the snuggle-fests on the couch, the two never sit next to each other.

And she catches the way they stare after each other when the other isn’t looking.

It would be adorable if it wasn’t so… obnoxious? Tragic?

Depressing. That’s the one.

She stops paying so much attention to the star-crossed not-lovers sometime around when she and Quynh start getting naked together again. Then she has other things to think about.

…

Nile, for all that she’s ace and has literally no interest in such things, thinks it’s kind of hilarious.

Keane never put this kind of effort in before. It used to be he’d just throw on whatever clothes he felt like wearing, and go. 

He was very task-particular about his clothing, but never seemed to care much what he looked like. Aside from that one night at the bar.

But if that night at the bar has taught her anything, it’s what Keane looks like when he’s putting on a show.

And he’s been putting on a show since not long after they arrived.

Said show is all but killing Booker.

It’s lost them a couple dishes already as he’s dropped a plate or accidentally turned too close to a counter and smashed his mug against the edge.

Keane does at least have the grace to look abashed at that. Apparently his intention is to distract Booker without attracting the attention of the others.

Intention: failed, as far as Nile’s concerned.

Booker’s not putting in any effort to do anything but keep from drinking. He’s actually doing really well with that.

But Keane watches him anyways. Nile’s noticed.

Though Keane’s glances, before he locks them down, have a lot more of sadness and a lot less of thirst, than Booker’s. 

She both does and doesn’t want to know what happened.

…

Nicky doesn’t have to pay that much attention to know what’s going on. It’s always been in his nature to watch. To make connections. To see patterns others miss, without really trying.

The two men grew close in their time alone.

He doesn’t know how close and it’s none of his business anyways. 

But beneath the obvious physical attraction that developed, there are feelings.

Keane’s acting out to cover that, and it’s working. Booker’s too distracted by the visuals Keane’s bombarding him with, to notice the edge of hurt under it.

Maybe it’s to remind Booker what he passed up.

And it is definitely Booker who did the passing. The regret on his face is obvious.

Nicky feels like they came home to a basset hound instead of their Frenchman. Those eyes are downright forlorn. 

Under other circumstances Nicky might find it funny.

But seeing the two men so entangled yet so distant, only makes him sad.

Fortunately he has a strong pair of arms and warm soft lips and a body to kill, or die for, to help distract _him_.

Joe is all too happy to oblige.

…

Quynh knows more than anyone.

Perhaps even Booker and Keane. Because she’s seen through both of their eyes.

Felt the resonance of their emotions.

She heard Booker’s stuttered declaration in the back of the car. Felt Keane’s arms around him.

Saw how the two men slept coiled around each other like lovers, long before there was anything else lover-like about their actions.

Felt Booker’s realisation that his alcoholism would be the thing that tears him and Keane apart.

And the heartbreak of both men as he ended it almost before it began.

She’s the only one who knows the depth of Keane’s feelings. And that he hasn’t felt that way for anyone in a long, long time.

She hurts for both of them.

While still finding Booker’s clumsiness in the face of Keane’s deliberate sexy funny.

She’s spent centuries dying and is allowed to find some humor in otherwise bad situations, thank-you-very-much.

…

So, yeah. Keane’s pretty deliberate about dressing and putting himself in situations _to be seen_. Seen and appreciated by Booker.

He thinks it’s for spite.

To remind Booker what he’s missing.

But deeper? In a place not even he can acknowledge?

It’s to distract him. All of them, from the truth.

Right now, Keane’s shattered from something far more recent than his parents’ death.

It was only a few hours from him realising…

To it being over.

And somewhere deep inside, he’s lost in the face of it.

The others will never know.

_Booker._

Will never know.

Because Keane thinks they already missed their shot. Or he refuses to hope for anything more at this point.

So what the fuck is the point of letting him see it now?

Best let them think he’s being petulant in the face of rejection.

Instead of seeing the gaping wound in his chest he feels like he’s bleeding out from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. Comments?


	28. We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter sets in. Someone realises they may have made a mistake.

Keane does the Petty Thing.

He runs. He reads. He even does a little writing, though every page gets thrown into the woodstove the day he writes it. No way is he going to let anyone come across that shit. If someone wants to know how he feels, they can _ask_. And he can tell them to mind their own damn business.

There’s oddly a lot to do without having to leave the property. Plenty to keep busy with.

Chopping wood for the woodstove or the fire pit at Jehanne’s Rock. Moving and stacking said wood. 

Clearing the driveway when it snows, and ensuring everyone (Nile first. She’s the most excited about it.) has a turn learning how to drive the tractor and move the snow without damaging either the driveway or the tractor.

Cleaning the house. It’s a big house. There’s plenty to clean.

Figuring out what they missed in buying furniture and decorating the house.

Apparently ‘art’ and ‘cooking utensils’ make up the lion’s share of that, and they place a few online orders and a couple trips to town to fill the void.

The snow settles in, piling up centimeters at a time and blanketing the world in white.

It’s a stark sort of beauty, but a beauty nonetheless.

And the sunrises? Spectacular.

Pinks and blues and yellows and oranges reflecting off the snow so the entire view is color. And as the winter deepens, the sun rises later and later. One could almost sleep in and still get to see it.

Nile has found another void in the preparations for their homecoming: the utter lack of a sound system. She and Booker go shopping one day to rectify that and while it’s not in her nature to splurge, she makes a distinct exception.

They come home with _two_ complete sound systems, a couple new laptops, and a handful of individual Bluetooth speakers for different individual rooms.

There’s a few quirked eyebrows as they carry in box after box after box.

“You sure that’ll all fit in the house?” quips Joe.

Booker rolls his eyes. If it fit in the truck (barely, in Joe’s defense) it’ll fit in the house.

They spend that evening unpacking boxes and reading manuals and watching online how-to videos, getting everything set up.

And then commences Nile’s musical education of Quynh.

She starts off gently, introducing some of the most beloved and well-known of classical music. Joe and Nicky and Booker interject with actual information about the artists as they go, ensuring Quynh understands the time and place of the music and telling stories of how variations of ‘the devil’s music’ have progressed over the years.

Society has always despised progress, even as it clawed for it.

Nile would very much like to skip to the modern music but she’s taking this seriously. So only classical for today. After the education portion they leave Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing loudly in the living room upstairs. Quynh lays on the couch with her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. Fingers flowing in time with the music like a half-hearted conductor. Andy curls into her side not long after and they lay in each others arms, basking in the sound.

As the days and the lessons progress, Nile and Keane also get an education on all the famous artists the older ones have _met._

She doesn’t believe it until a cursory internet search shows some very recognisable faces in the background of a few pictures.

Andy scowls at that. “Is it any wonder Copley figured us out. We need to do better.”

“How were we to know there would ever be a way of searching like this?” Nicky counters. “We know now. And we’re doing a better job of it now.”

“And now people will believe our stories,” Joe adds unhelpfully.

“What _people_?” says Andy, glaring at him.

“Nile and Keane,” he replies, gesturing to them like it’s the obvious answer.

She drags a hand down her face. “Sometimes I wonder at surviving the likes of you lot for so long.”

Every person in the room is grinning when she glances back up. She sighs and shakes her head, and the corner of her mouth pulls up. It’s impossible to not smile in the face of these yahoos.

…

Keane’s doing just fine.

Until he’s not.

It’s just a bad day. His head’s on backwards and for some reason his run has him feeling shaky and on edge instead of relaxed and all he wants to do once he gets back is take a shower and hide in his room.

It’s the damn rat that gets him.

Or thwarts him, in any case.

Normally he’s quite fond of Miscreant. The little guy has attitude, doesn’t listen to anyone, and has this terrifying way of cuteing his way out of almost any situation. It’s adorable and for some reason reminds him of Quynh.

But he’s done his shower and he’s dressed in clean clothes and he’s almost made his escape…

When he opens his bedroom door and a little fuzzy snake-with-legs streaks in past his feet and disappears under the bed.

He swears under his breath and dives after the aptly-named troublemaker.

His ass is in the air and his arm is under the bed and he’s just slammed his head into the bedframe and the swears are nowhere near under his breath anymore when Booker comes looking for the Miscreant.

Booker wants to stand there in the doorway laughing, but there’s an edge to Keane’s voice he’s not used to hearing. So in the name of rescuing Miscreant from Keane’s likely-justifiable anger he goes to the other side of the bed and drops to his knees. “C’mon, little guy. Leave the man alone,” he says.

Keane starts so hard he slams his head for a second time, letting out a string of epithets in three different languages as he rolls away, pressing his hand to his new lump. He lays there on the floor, eyes scrunched closed and muttering to himself.

Miscreant helpfully comes to perch on his chest, peering at him in concern.

As though he isn’t the _cause_ of all this.

Kean squints a glare at the little monster, but doesn’t push him off or direct any of the colorful language at him. Just at the universe in general. In this moment, he feels like it’s earned it.

“I am so sorry,” Booker says as he lurches to his feet. “He was just hanging out with us in the living room and he bolted.” He scoops Miscreant up, holding him in one hand as he ignores the annoyed chittering that is Miscreant’s usual response to being manhandled.

“It’s fine,” Keane says, waving him off. “Just take him and go.” His voice comes out rough and he can feel a sting at the back of his eyes that has nothing to do with the pain in his head.

He’s been fighting that sting all morning and it’s why he wanted to desperately to make it back to his room unnoticed and unbothered.

Soft footfalls sound on their way out his door and he closes his eyes in relief.

Yeah. Relief is what that is.

The door closes and the sob he’s been barely holding back for the last hour escapes.

“Are you okay?” says Booker, from _inside_ the room.

Jesus fucking _Christ._

Keane’s eyes slam open and he finds himself staring up at 1.87 meters of concerned Frenchman with bedraggled hair and too-blue eyes.

When he takes too long to answer, Booker steps closer. Swallows. Reaches for Keane. Pulls his arm back. And then reaches again. “C’mon. This isn’t a conversation to have laying down.”

Keane takes it, cursing the way his traitor heart jumps at the contact. Lets himself be tugged to his feet-

And into a hug.

Dammit.

The arms around him are strong and sure and familiar and he’s utterly helpless against them, just burying his face in Booker’s shoulder and hanging on.

“I got you,” he hears. “I’m here.”

Fuck, but he missed this. Him.

That just makes it hurt more.

Knowing this is temporary. A friend. A good one, offering comfort.

Selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t want a friend. Or he doesn’t want this man to be one.

He wants something else. Something he hasn’t dared hope for in well over a decade.

Keane has no idea how long they stand there, arms around each other, before they slowly. Maybe awkwardly. Step away.

“Sit,” says Booker, patting the bed next to them and presumptuously following his own instruction. “Talk to me.”

Keane stands there a moment, staring at the floor somewhere near Booker’s feet. Then sits, leaving a space between them.

Booker doesn’t ask, scooting closer to sit with his arm pressed to Keane’s.

That’s all it takes for Keane to lean and rest his head on Booker’s shoulder, letting out a shuddering sigh. “Sorry,” he says. “Think my bullshit caught up with me today.”

“Your bullshit?” Booker asks, barely holding off from pressing a kiss to Keane’s hair. He’s not supposed to do shit like that anymore.

Another sigh shudders its way out of Keane. “Yeah. Thought I was so smart. That I could get away with carving out tiny fragments of what I needed and it would be enough. It never was. I never realised it until now.”

“What changed?” asks Booker.

“You did.”

Familiar words. 

They feel as momentous now as they did then.

“How?” asks Booker, proud of how his voice comes out even. 

It feels like every cell in his body is vibrating.

There’s a rushing in his ears. 

Like the course of his life somehow hinges on the words this man is about to speak.

Keane raises his head, forcing himself to look at Booker’s face. “I thought it was enough. I thought just meeting someone gorgeous and spending a night in their arms was enough. But then—” He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “Then there was this… this _idiot_ whose feelings bled all over everything even though he refused to talk about them. And he was sweet and surprisingly shy and not afraid to share a bed with a gay man even though he had no interest whatsoever and then I got to know him and turns out he feels so deeply he stayed faithful for two hundred years and I can’t even _fathom_ that. The last time I was in love I was practically still a kid and I put an end to it so early and I refused to ever be in a position like that again but—”

Booker lets the words hang between them a few seconds. “But?” he finally offers, softly.

Keane surges to his feet and starts pacing in the space between the bed and the wall, back and forth past Booker’s legs.

“But instead of getting a quick fuck and breakfast I got long strange conversations and long stranger silences and weeks of sleeping next to someone I couldn’t touch and then weeks of _actually being able to touch that someone_ and then he kissed me and then—”

His shoulders slump and he stares at the wall ahead of him, Booker off to one side.

Close enough to touch.

“He gave me everything I didn’t know I needed,” he finishes quietly.

Booker reaches out to grip his hand, hard. “And then I left.”

Keane nods, bowing his head. Closing his eyes. Squeezing back.

“You did it for the right reasons. I can’t fault you for that,” Keane finally concedes.

“Didn’t make it hurt any less,” Booker counters. “For me, too.”

“No. It really didn’t. But you made the right choice.” He turns to meet Booker’s gaze, dark eyes luminous with unshed tears. “It would be foolish to change that now.”

“I made the decision based on a flawed premise,” Booker says, clear blue eyes calm. Quiet.

“What?” Keane doesn’t dare to hope. Hope is not a thing he gets to keep.

“I made that decision based on having to lean on you. On you supporting me through trying to get sober. And that was fair. But I forgot something. Or didn’t know it for sure yet: you’re not the only one I have, to lean on in this. I have an entire family of people who will be more than happy to kick my ass or sit with me on a bad day. They’ve done it for hundreds of years. And now there’s even more of them. I won’t be using you as a crutch. You can be part of my support system without having to be the entire thing. And I want you closer than across the hall for it. All of it.”

Well. Those words come as much of a surprise to Booker as they are to Keane. 

Until right this moment, he hadn’t realised it. Any of it.

But now that they’re out, he doesn’t want to take them back.

“What are you saying,” Keane replies, voice flat.

“I’m saying I don’t want what we started to be over. I’m saying I miss you. Your arms around me and your lips on mine an—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

He’s been interrupted by those lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last few chapters haven't felt right to me. Looking back, I can see why. They needed to happen, but so did this. Chapter took a turn on me again. I did NOT SEE THIS COMING. But I'm so glad it did!
> 
> Let me know what you think?


	29. If You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keane and Booker are together again. And make it official.

If Keane was a less selfish man, he’d have let him finish. 

He’d have waited for Booker to say his piece, _ask permission_ , and then kissed him.

But he’s not. He’s selfish and desperate and he’s been drowning these last weeks, knowing how he felt and having convinced himself that Booker wouldn’t want him by the time he figured things out.

Except apparently Booker’s’s been missing Keane as much as Keane’s been missing Booker.

Why is that a surprise?

No matter now; Keane’s a little busy to be wallowing in recriminations.

Because his hands are fisted in the lapels of Booker’s button-down shirt and Booker’s hands are on Keane’s hips, dragging him in and Booker lays back and Keane finds himself pulled off balance and right on top of Booker—

He’s going to have to, at some point, explain that gay kissing can be done both horizontally _and_ vertically. But since he’s hardly complaining now, Keane’s willing to put off that conversation for a bit.

There are lips and tongues and gasps and moans and someone’s hand grips the back of someone else’s neck and there is most _definitely_ something in Booker’s jeans that is hard and wanting and pressed against the like in Keane’s own sweatpants and part of Keane wants to just reach down and touch. To hurdle over all all the baby steps and just _touch_.

He’s halfway to deciding to do just that when the scratching starts.

They both miss it over the sound of their own heavy breathing at first. And then each decides, separately, to ignore it. 

But the sound grows more and more insistent until Keane finally drags his damp, swollen lips from Booker’s to glare over his shoulder at the door.

Booker sighs and drags a hand through his own hair. “Apparently it’s not enough for him to be matchmaker. He has to be a cockblocker too.”

Keane lets out a barked guffaw that Booker can feel all the way to his toes. It warms him in ways even the weight pressed on him doesn’t.

The way that man grins down at him steals Booker’s breath.

Then from one blink to the next, the smile, the weight, and the warmth is gone. Booker stares at Keane’s retreating back as he heads for the bedroom door, opens it, bends and gives Booker a damn good view of that frankly phenomenal ass, picks up the Miscreant, closes the door and turns back.

There must be something obvious in Booker’s expression as Keane quirks a brow, smirking as he tucks the little ferret under his arm and returns to Booker’s side. “I owe you one,” he says to the little guy before setting him on Booker’s chest and laying down next to him, stomach (and other things) pressed to Booker’s side.

“So,” he says. “I kind of interrupted you.” And doesn’t sound in the least bit apologetic.

“Want to do it again?” Booker says hopefully, flashing a devastatingly boyish grin as he scritches the top of Miscreant’s head.

Damn. That thing should be registered as a weapon. The smile, not the ferret. Though, knowing Miscreant…

Keane swallows. “Yes. Very much so. But we also need to have this conversation. We can kiss after.”

Miscreant scampers off, more interested in exploring than hanging out.

Typical.

Booker stuffs down a pang of disappointment. Kissing is better than talking. “I missed you. Something tells me you felt the same?” 

Keane nods. “Yeah. Enough it was making me kind of stupid. And spiteful.”

Booker strokes a hand down Keane’s side. “The outfits. The workouts. You did that on _purpose_?”

Now it’s Keane’s turn to flash a grin. “Damn right I did. I had my head up my ass and I had to do _something_ to keep from actually communicating.”

“Do you have _any idea_ how effective that was?” Booker huffs.

The grins turns wolfish. “I did compile evidence to that end, yes.”

“You made me break plates.”

“Yup,” Keane says proudly.

“Any way I could talk you into continuing, now that I can do something about it?”

“Depends. Planning on breaking more dishes?”

“That is not the something I was planning, no.” Booker gets this adorable line between his brows.

“Oh. More fun things in mind then.” Keane’s tone is light, teasing.

Booker demonstrates, sealing his lips to Keane’s.

“Okay now seriously,” Keane says between panted breaths when he manages to pull himself away, some minutes later.

Booker cups Keane’s cheek, eyes so blue a man could drown in them. “I want us. To be together. For real. To give it a shot and see where this takes us.”

Keane’s gaze maybe turns a little watery. “I’d like that. I’m shit at relationships. Or I’ve never really made the attempt at one. But I’m willing to try.”

“I’ve only been with one person. One woman. Who I’ve loved for over two centuries. But I want to give this a shot. I don’t—I don’t know how to be with a man. But I’m trusting you can show me the ropes?”

Something… interested. Slithers through the back of Keane’s gaze. He grins wide. “Well I thought we’d start with some heavy groping but I’m not adverse to the idea of bondage down the road…”

Booker buries his burning face in Keane’s shirt. “You’re terrible,” he accuses, voice muffled and ears aflame.

Keane strokes the back of Booker’s head as he chuckles. “I really am,” he promises.

…

It takes them a while to pry themselves out of that bed. They’re substantially rumpled when they finally emerge, Miscreant held to Booker’s chest as he drags Keane along behind him.

Most of the others are on the couch, watching a movie with a lot of explosions and loud music and sand.

“I want to be her when I grow up,” Andy says, pointing to a woman on the screen.

“I think you already are,” Nicky replies as he grabs the remote to pause the film. He can read a situation well enough to know this is a pausing moment.

Nile turns around in the kitchen and sees—

She slams the bowl down so hard it sends popcorn flying all over the counter, running around the island with a shriek. Gaze never leaving the two men’s clasped hands.

Miscreant decides he’s had enough as the force of nature descends on them, squirming out of Booker’s grip to scamper off to his favourite kindred spirit: Quynh.

“ _Took you long enough_ ,” she all but growls as she stops in front of them, pulling first Booker and then Keane into a hard hug. With no further lecture, she flounces back to the kitchen to scoop popcorn off the counter and back into the bowl.

Booker squares his shoulders as he looks at the others. He feels Keane squeeze his hand and lean into his arm. Keane stays silent, letting Booker speak for both of them. These were his people first.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Distantly hopes the ground will open up and swallow him and when that doesn’t happen he just. Speaks. “We’re together now,” he says, voice coming out strained.

That’s it. That’s the grand speech. And yet, his family knows him well enough to understand what a massive statement it is.

Nicky nods.

Andy rolls her eyes. Fondly.

Joe’s eyes smile, even if his lips no more than twitch to accompany them.

Nile has already rendered her judgement.

Quynh serenely hands Miscreant over to Andy and rises to her feet, walking over to stand before the two men. She peers at them, each in turn.

Raises both hands.

Knocks on both of their foreheads. 

“No more stupid, huh?” And goes back to the couch. 

“Finally,” she mutters to herself.

When everyone’s done laughing and Booker’s face has stopped combusting, the two men join the others on the couch. Snuggled up and still holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap it's been a week. Things were stressful and I had no energy for writing. But yesterday was good (understatement) so I'm back to it. Hope y'all are doing great and were as buoyed by yesterday's news as I was.
> 
> As per always: I love comments!


	30. Have a Minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker and Keane adjust to the new normal that is them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: Brief mention of suicidal ideation. (From the movie.)

They sleep in each other’s arms that night. Legs tangled and arms clinging and it takes a while for either of them to actually fall asleep because, separately, they’re both afraid to wake up and find this was a dream.

But eventually they fall. Pressed and coiled together except this time there’s a stinky little furball who curls up behind Booker’s neck and sleeps on his pillow.

Neither Booker nor Keane seem to mind though. In fact, Booker finds it quite nice.

Something that’s felt unsteady and ready to collapse in on itself in Booker’s chest slowly strengthens, there in those warm, strong, familiar arms.

For just this moment, this night, all feels right with the world.

…

The shock of it doesn’t wear off before the morning. Both men wake, blinking at each other in the dim light of godforsaken-winter-morning-in-Canada.

And they smile. Blink back something rasping and harsh. Hang on tight, and breathe deep for the first morning in a long time.

They’re pretty inseparable for a while. Sharing one of their beds, wrapped up in one another. Eating next to each other. Working out together. Neither wants to let the other out of reach, never mind sight.

They’re not too obnoxious about the public displays, so the others mostly tolerate it without comment.

Except Nile, who has no problem with them in particular so much that she’s surrounded by gross gropey couples.

She is seriously considering getting a revenge puppy.

…

Nile’s musical education of Quynh comes with an unanticipated side effect: Joe’s accompanying dance lessons.

Joe already showed his ability to smoothly flail to pretty much anything, that night in the bar in Prague.

But the others’ skills come as a surprise, to Nile at least.

Nicky is almost inhumanly graceful in the arms of his lover, as long as the dance has structure. He doesn’t miss a beat. A step. A spin. As they glide around the living room in perfect harmony. When Joe dips him it should be comical. Awkward. Instead the fire it ignites in Nicky’s eyes is breathtaking.

She’d assumed he played the wallflower because he couldn’t dance.

And then she learns it’s a skill they _all_ have.

Andy stands and walks over to where Booker and Keane are side by side on the couch. Enjoying the show and the music and each other’s company without showing any intention of participating. She offers Booker a hand and he grins before kissing Keane’s cheek and rising to his feet.

The dance they start has elaborate steps and spins and the two grin at each other the entire time, eyes dancing right along with the rest of them. 

Right up until Quynh and Keane step in almost as one to cut in. Turns out that, while they don’t know the steps, they’re both adaptable enough to follow their graceful partners and their eagerness makes up for their lack of experience.

Booker could spend an eternity in Keane’s arms and never get tired. Something about the light in Keane’s eyes and the way his hands feel on Booker’s shoulder and in his own, makes him think Keane feels the same.

Each of the immortals takes the time to show Nile a different style of dance. She’s a quick study, picking up the steps and laughing as they move around the living room, narrowly avoiding the other couples.

They’re all sweaty and exhausted by the time they’re done, but they’re grinning too.

…

Miscreant is both a joy and an annoyance.

He likes to get up on kitchen counters which puts him at odds with Nicky a lot and Keane on occasion. Nicky’s solution is to chase him out. Keane’s is to wear a hoodie and let him perch in the hood. That’s usually enough to keep him out of the way long enough to cook without interference.

The little ferret loves hoodies. He loves curling up in the hood and taking a nap. He loves doing the same in the pouch, or riding around with his little head poking out.

He is not fond of the cold, staying far away from open doors and chitter-yelling at anyone who lets in a draft.

He likes laps, in particular Quynh’s. She seems the most tolerant of him, out of all those in the house. Even Booker, at times. Quynh greets him with a soft smile and scritches and she doesn’t disturb him when he’s napping with her.

Keane takes to having the little guy in his bed with little complaint. Except when Miscreant gets playful in the middle of the night and worms his way under the covers to nibble on toes.

That’s where he draws the line though, capturing the little criminal and setting him outside the door and firmly closing it behind him. If Miscreant scratches to get back in, Keane just puts him in his ferret enclosure in the living room. It’s better than the yelling that happens if Miscreant sneaks into someone else’s room to bite _their_ toes.

Andy’s particularly put out by that.

She figures after this long she’s earned the right to sleep without being assaulted by her supposed allies.

…

One afternoon Booker takes them all down to Jehanne’s Rock.

They bundle up and drag a load of wood on a toboggan with them and clear an area around the fire pit and start a fire, sitting down on the cold ground to warm themselves and stare at the flames.

“This is Jehanne’s Rock,” says Booker after they’re all settled around the growing warmth. “Keane and I wanted a memorial of sorts to our families, and this is what we made.”

Quynh nods. “I like it,” she says.

Andy swallows. “I mostly like the fact I won’t have to come here to mourn you,” she whispers in response, pressing her lips and cold nose to Quynh’s cheek.

Quynh wraps an arm around Andy and pulls her in tight to her side. “Me, too.”

“And buried under the snow over there, is Fucking Cold Creek,” adds Booker.

“Pardon your French?” replies Joe, snort-laughing at his own bad joke.

It’s all Keane can do to keep from joining him, biting his lips hard as they pull up at the sides and Booker glares at the both of them.

He’s as good as renamed the little frozen tributary with that quip though.

Some people think that’s more hilarious than others.

…

Joe ‘invites’ Booker for a drive. Alone. And he won’t take no for an answer.

“We need to have a conversation,” he says, though there’s something in his expression that has Booker nervous for a reason other than the expectation of murder or yelling.

Booker, being a non-stupid person, is still afraid.

Bad decision-making does not equal stupid.

He goes, mostly because he suspects Joe would not consider conking Booker over the head and tying him up to be beneath him.

Deserved, even.

Thank God for heated garages, Booker thinks as he climbs into the passenger seat of the already-warm Jeep and buckles up. “You telling me where we’re going?” he asks.

“Nope,” Joe says as he opens the garage door and pulls out into the cold. The sky is bright and it’s not snowing today, at least.

Okay then. Booker doesn’t try to continue the stilted conversation. Joe will speak when he’s good and ready, and not a moment before. No point in fighting the inevitable.

Joe takes them through a Tim Horton’s drive thru in town and gets them a dozen donuts and each a giant coffee. The coffee’s middling, but it’s part of the Canadian experience. Or so Joe’s been led to believe. So Timmie’s it is.

He parks, leaving the Jeep running, in a spot where they can watch the traffic. “So,” he says, all too casually. “How much do you know about gay sex?”

Booker spits a mouthful of hot coffee all over the dash.

“What?” he rasps when he can finally breathe again.

Joe sips, taking his time with it. “You heard me. I assume you and Keane haven’t gone that far. Something tells me I’d know.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” Booker whines. Can he call someone to come pick him up?

Can he do so without Joe blabbing about the conversation Booker needed a ride to avoid.

Can he do so without Joe having this conversation again later _in front of everyone_.

Jesus fuck. He’s trapped. “I—I hadn’t thought about it?”

One of Joe’s eyebrows nearly gets lost in his hairline. “You’ve been eye-fucking that man for weeks.”

Booker takes off his seatbelt to slide down his seat, all but whimpering as he stares up at the ceiling of the Jeep. “Why do you have to put it like that?”

“Just calling it like I see it. And you haven’t answered my first question.”

“My brain will never recover from hearing it.”

“Yes it will. Sometime after you have the gay sex instead of just thinking about it all the time.”

Booker sits back up, levelling Joe with a glare.

Joe appears immune to Booker’s laser vision. Pity.

“I kid,” Joe says, breaking into a smile. “You are under no obligation to have sex with anyone, at any time, if you don’t want to.”

“That’s the kind of thing Keane says. A lot.”

Joe cocks his head, giving Booker a considering look as the smile falls from his lips. “Good. He hurts you, I’ll drop him in a volcano. I don’t know if we can survive that, but I’d be excited to find out.”

Something clenches in Book’s chest at that and his face sort of scrunches up. “Why?”

“Why do I want to drop him in a volcano? Come now. I shot him in the head twice. You know why.”

“No. Not that. Why would you do that for him hurting me?”

Booker’s betrayal warrants far more than a broken heart. Joe should consider it poetic justice.

“Because for all that you’re an ass and you make bad decisions, you deserve to be happy. And Keane? He makes you happier than I’ve seen in a long, long time.”

Booker still doesn’t get it. He doesn’t deserve to be happy. You shouldn’t _get_ to be happy after you get your brothers captured, tortured, and murdered. For days. After you shoot your best friend and get her captured too. After you take everyone on this planet you love and strip them of anything close to hope—

“Stop it.”

“Stop what,” Booker says stubbornly.

“I can _hear_ you self-flagellating. Fucking stop it. That’s what got us into this stupid situation in the first place: your belief that you don’t get to be happy and wanting to end it all.”

Booker wants to argue. He really, really wants to argue. But Joe has a very good point.

“Okay,” Booker finally says, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Book, for the first time in forever I see you wanting to build a future. And I think if you felt like that before Paris, we would never have ended up in that situation in the first place.”

Booker nods, taking a long sip.

“So,” Joe continues, courteously waiting until Booker pulls the cup away from his lips. “If you have any questions about being with a man. Physically. Emotionally. Sexually. Just know you can come to me. If I laugh it’s because it’s adorable you’re fucking twitterpated with the new guy and the world needs more adorable gay couples. But I’ll honestly answer any questions you might have.”

Oh.

Now Booker’s blinking back tears. “Okay,” he says again. “Thank you. I—I don’t have any questions yet, but if I do I’ll bring them to you. Promise.”

“When in doubt, use lube,” says Joe as he puts the Jeep in reverse and heads for home.

Booker loses another mouthful of coffee to the dashboard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh I ran out of ideas. So I just slapped a bunch of stuff on the page. And then I got an idea. Thank you Joe for rescuing this chapter.
> 
> Comments are very welcome. They keep me warm in this cold, cold winter.


	31. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Immortals have some... conversations. With Keane.

Andy is hardly one to pass up an opportunity. So while Booker’s away with Joe, she takes the opportunity to corner Keane in the gym.

“Thought you and I could talk,” she says as he runs through a circuit of floor exercises. “One on one.”

Well that’s ominous as fuck. 

At least she’s giving him a bit of warning.

Not to mention: not pulling that tired cliché of standing over him while he was on the weight bench. Not that that would do anything but give him a headache even if she took it to the extreme.

Still. Points for mercy.

“Fire away,” he says as he flows from form to form, balanced and graceful and slow in the movements.

“So. You and Booker.” Her tone is almost chillingly casual.

“Yeah,” he grunts as he keeps moving. He’s perfectly capable of holding a conversation while doing this. In fact, the movements are helping keep his head clear.

“You know you’re the first person he’s shown interest in, in two centuries.”

“Yep.” She has a narrative she’s building. No point in extending the interruption beyond a single word.

“Which means he has a lot invested in you. In this relationship.”

The workout becomes slightly more difficult when he has a furry snake with legs wrap itself around his ankle and start chewing on his shin. Keane sighs and stoops to pick up the little rascal, tucking the bane of his existence under his arm.

He raises his gaze to meet Andy’s, almost surprised she’s not absently running her thumb along the edge of a blade.

Though the fact that he’s picturing it tells him she’s effectively communicating the threat anyways.

“Yes.” Might as well cut her off at the pass, now that he’s been effectively interrupted anyways. He absently scritches Miscreant’s head as he speaks. “I know that he doesn’t give his heart, or even his interest, easily. I know that he loves very deeply when he does, and that he deeply mourns the woman he loves, even now. I care about Sebastien. A lot. Enough that he’s not the only one with skin in this game. I lost him once. I don’t want to have to go through that again.”

She nods. “See that you don’t. If you hurt him, that awful thing they put Quynh in will seem like a vacation by the beach. Understood?”

“Understood.”

She leaves him with that image and the unsettling feeling she’d find something very… imaginative, to do to him if he broke Booker’s heart. 

Like he didn’t’ already have enough incentive not to.

…

Andy is not the last person to threaten him that day. Hell, she’s not even the second-last.

Nicky shows up next, and Keane realises they haven’t actually spoken much, one-on-one.

“You shot me,” is Nicky’s opening salvo.

Nice opening; direct hit. Keane can’t help but wince, both from the knowledge of what he did, and the sense-memory of _knowing precisely how it feels to heal a gunshot wound to the head_. “Yeah. I did. I think an apology would be almost insulting, though I am sorry. I wish I’d never gone to work for that asshole. Shooting you was the last in a long string of bad decisions and—I’m sorry for it. For all of it.”

“I am more upset over what that did to Joe, than what you did to me.”

Keane’s standing by the workbench-slash-armory in the garage, field stripping and cleaning a pistol. Nicky drags over a stool and sits down as he speaks.

Keane nods over the gun. “Yeah. That follows. I’d be pretty pissed off if Booker died now and I had to watch it happen and wonder if he was coming back.”

“Your understanding does not negate the damage done,” Nicky points out, all too calm.

Fuck. Keane forgot how terrifying he could be.

Keane turns from the workbench and pulls up another stool, giving Nicky his full attention. “It doesn’t. I can’t take back what I did to you. I know how it feels to get shot in the head. Healing’s not fun. But I don’t know what it’s like to watch the person you’ve loved for hundreds of years in pain like that. And wonder if you’ve lost them.”

“You very much don’t.” Nicky huffs out a breath. “But I hope you will. Not so you can have the pain. But so Booker can have hope again. Love. Warm arms to hold him. Family. He had forgotten those things. Forgot how to seek them out. That is what gave you the chance to do what you did. Though your own decisions were not insignificant to the situation.”

“I want to be those things for him.”

“Good. If he is harmed, physically or emotionally, by your action or inaction, I will cut you to pieces with a sabre saw and pour acid on the parts that try to heal.”

Jesus Christ. Keane’s never wanted a drink more in his life than he does right now.

…

Nile finds him while he’s making himself grilled cheese sandwiches that afternoon. “Did you guys plan this, or just take advantage of the opportunity?” he asks as he hears her approach, not believing for even a moment, that her reason for coming to him is anything but calculated.

“The latter, though I’m not above being opportunistic. I take it you’ve already gotten the shovel talk?”

“Twice,” he says. “Andy and then Nicky. Their threats were… effective. Though not if their intention was to scare me off.”

“Good. Booker deserves better than someone who can be warned off so easily.”

“So what flavor is your threat?” He shoots a glance over his shoulder to find her leaning a hip on the counter by the fridge.

“Look I could threaten to cover you in thermite and then throw a sparkler but I doubt anything I could say could out-scary thousand-year-old immortals,” she says, studying her nails.

“Is it a recruiting criteria or does becoming immortal just grant the ability to be terrifying without trying?” he says, turning to stare at her.

She’s smiling broadly. “Look, I’ve known him for like, a week longer than I’ve known you. He betrayed us. You shot Nicky. As far as I’m concerned that means you’re on sort of even footing. I’ll be threatening him too. You’re a cute couple and you seem happy together. Don’t fuck it up and if I have to walk in on the two of you anywhere in this house so help me I’ll pour motor oil in your bed.”

“Message received.”

She narrows her eyes. “It’d better be. Bad enough I have to live with all of you making moon eyes at each other and—” She makes the sign of the cross over herself. “The _noises_. It’s enough to drive a person insane. So for my sanity, nothing public and nothing loud.”

He grins. “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do.”

She leaves him to his burning grilled cheese.

…

Quynh is every inch a queen of serenity as she approaches him later. 

Well. Every inch but a spot on her left shoulder where there is a tiny badger perched on its back legs and staring at him.

The badger is impressive, but not very regal.

“I believe I am required to threaten you,” she says.

“Required?” One of his eyebrows makes a valiant effort to reach his hairline.

She dips her head. “Yes. Required. I have had to witness Booker’s pain for a long time. Two centuries, I am told. Do not add to it.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been doing the opposite,” he replies.

“Noticed that,” she says, flashing a grin and kissing his cheek.

With that she flounces off, more like a child than a queen.

Miscreant gives him a Look as they go.

Message received, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought!


	32. Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Booker return. Threats continue. They're not quite done yet.

Booker and Joe return later, bearing donuts.

Book’s still in one piece, so… good?

Keane greets him at the door with a kiss on the cheek. Booker smiles at that, catching his gaze.

There’s color in Booker’s cheeks, and Keane’s expression is more than slightly exasperated, though that doesn’t seem pointed at his boyfriend.

“What did I miss?” Booker says, beating Keane to the punch.

“Your friends love you very much and are exceptionally imaginative in their threats,” he says mildly, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards.

Booker barely manages to get his shoes off before a little bundle of chaos comes skittering across the floor and climbs him to settle on his shoulder. “Hey little guy,” he says with a greeting scritch before continuing with Keane. “Oh?”

Any sign of mirth falls from Keane’s expression. “Like you didn’t know.”

Booker rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly I didn’t expect that. I—” He figured they were still pissed enough to not care much what happened between himself and Keane.

“Dare I ask why Joe kidnapped you?” Keane asks, saving him from further introspection. No pieces seem to be missing or healing, so it went better than it would have if Keane had been the abductee.

“I asked him about sex,” Joe says, flashing an evil grin on his way past them, to Nicky and the couch.

Booker closes his eyes, flame rising in his cheeks as he drops his head.

Keane pulls him in, kissing his temple and gripping the back of his neck as he lets Booker bury his face in his neck. “I got you,” he says. Not teasing. Not about this. He smiles and shakes his head, but he gets why this is a difficult topic for Booker. “Dare I ask?”

He feels Booker shake his head and he hangs on tight.

“I just offered pointers if he wanted any,” Joe says, voice the picture of innocence.

Miscreant runs up Keane’s arm to sniff at, and then bite, Keane’s ear. He ignores it, letting the little guy be a shit without comment. He has more important things to consider.

“You’d have preferred the threats huh?”

Booker nods into his shoulder.

“You might have at least one of your own incoming,” Keane adds by the way of comfort. “Apparently Nile’s as invested in my happiness as she is in yours.”

There’s a pressure on Keane’s hand as Booker raises his hand, cracking a smile. “Really?”

Keane nods. “Come on. I promise to defend your honour against any attacks.”

“You’re as bad as they are,” Booker groans.

“You love it,” counters Keane, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the kitchen.

If pressed, he’d have to agree.

But only if pressed.

…

Joe does come to threaten Keane later. He seems a little… annoyed.

“Is it your turn?” Keane asks, patting the couch cushion next to him as Joe not-casually saunters over.

He somehow managed to find just the time Booker had to go get something from his room, leaving Keane alone. Funny how that works.

“My turn?”

“Come now. Neither of us are idiots. You took Booker off for a long talk and everyone else got to threaten me. Now you want to get yours in.”

Joe scowls. “Are you trying to take the fun out of it?”

“You got to shoot me. Twice. Pretty sure you already had your fun.”

Just because Keane’s right doesn’t mean they’re friends. Or that Joe’s not going to make that threat. Plus he wanted to shoot him more. He may have ‘had his fun’, but he didn’t get to have nearly _enough_ fun. “Last time Booker got depressed he had _you_ kidnap me and my husband and we were tortured for days,” he says. “You need to make damn sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

Keane turns to face Joe, squaring his shoulders. “Joe. Understand this. If anyone ever tries to come for you or Nicky. Or any of you. If anyone _ever_ tries to do to you what I did. What Merrick did. What Kozak did. They will have to come through me first. And I will _not_ be easy to go through.”

“You feel that guilty?” Joe says, cocking his head like he doesn’t really believe it.

Keane shakes his head. “Not guilt. Responsibility. I played my part in what happened to you. It was my orders. My men, who brought you in. Even when I learned what they planned, I went ahead with it. I am every bit as responsible as Merrick or the doctor. But more than that: I give a shit, now. About you. All of you. I like you guys and no one deserves what we did to you. Especially people who actually try to make the world a better place. So you bet your ass I’d put myself between you and a bullet. Or an axe. And most _definitely_ between you. Or Nicky. Andy. Quynh. Nile. _Booker._ And a scalpel.”

Joe stares at him for a moment. Then the hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. Lights up his gaze. He pats Keane’s arm. “See that you do,” he says before wandering off, leaving Keane more than a little disoriented.

…

If Booker’s gone long enough for Joe to corner Keane, it’s maybe because Nile saw her opening and took it, doing the same to Booker in his room.

She leans in the doorway, casually blocking his escape. “Hey,” she says.

“Is it my turn?” asks Booker as he pulls one of Keane’s hoodies over his head, rolling his shoulders to settle it in place. “Keane said you all took turns giving him the shovel talk while I was gone.”

She shrugs. “Pretty much, on both counts. Everyone’s threatening him and I thought he could use some backup.”

Booker looks up, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Good. I’d hate for him to think this is a ‘him-or-me’ thing.” His expression turns serious. “Would sort of leave one of us the odd man out no matter what.”

“Look, despite his questionable decision making for career choices, he seems like a good sort. And I think you two are good together. So… just. Be gentle, alright? With both of you.”

Booker drags her into a hug without warning. “I don’t deserve you, you know that?”

She sighs. Pats his shoulder. “I am aware of that, yes. But you get me anyways.”

…

He returns to the couch not long after, and Keane has an odd expression on his face.

“What did I miss?” Booker asks.

“Joe’s threat,” Keane says without ire.

“Oh. Sorry to leave you to that.”

He sounds like he means it. That counts for something.

Keane holds his hand open as Booker slides in next to him, and Booker takes the silent invitation. “They waited until we were separated. You know what that means, right?” says Keane.

“Oh?”

He kisses the underside of Booker’s jaw, lips brushing over his stubble. “It means they know we’re stronger together than apart.”

Why do those words have Booker’s eyes glistening.

He squeezes Keane’s hand. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me, too,” says Keane, laying his head on Booker’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life feels stressful right now. Just generally. For everyone. It's sapping my creative energy but I'm still plodding away at this. I have ideas for a few more chapters yet. 
> 
> I hope everything's going well with you all and if not, I hope this brightened your day for a few moments.


	33. Rely On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with the Immortals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Nile Catholic, simply because it's what I'm familiar with.

Andy doesn’t celebrate much of anything until recently, including Christmas. 

Booker’s celebration of the holidays usually runs to finding clever ways of helping his descendants out while staying anonymous.

Keane hasn’t celebrated the holidays since his brother died fifteen years ago.

Nicky and Joe celebrate each other more than they celebrate any one holiday. Add in the disparate religious backgrounds and the sheer capitalism of it all and you get them deciding on random dates every so often to splurge and dote on each other, and it rarely lands anywhere near the end of December.

Christmas wasn’t really a thing back before Quynh was in the iron maiden, and one could never have described her as Christian anyways. 

This will be Nile’s first Christmas without her family.

…

It happens, not in one central family meeting or such, but in a series of smaller conversations.

Quynh wants the pretty lights and the presents.

Andy wants to give Quynh the pretty lights and the presents.

Nicky wants to see the smiles on the faces of his family.

Joe wants the same, plus the food. _All_ the food.

Keane isn’t really sure what he wants.

Booker wants this to be the first of many, many Christmases for Keane with the rest of the immortals.

Nile misses her brother, and her mom. And her dad. She wonders how the rest will feel about her attending Christmas morning Mass.

…

Nicky suggests Christmas eve Mass, and offers to go with her.

“I wasn’t under the impression you were Catholic,” she says.

The little smile that ghosts across his lips holds multitudes. “Nile. I was once a priest.”

Joe snorts from where he’s sitting at the island.

“Come on. You’re shitting me.”

“He’s not,” Andy interjects.

“What, really? How did you en—”

Joe snickers louder.

“I was a third son and had no interest in starting a family. The priesthood seemed a way for me to gain education and have some quiet. Then I joined the Crusades when I grew bored of that and realised being a priest meant having a congregation and writing a lot of speeches.”

No version of Nicolo has ever been fond of crowds, and a congregation is, by nature, a crowd.

Nile turns to search Joe’s expression, sure he has something to say about all this.

Joe remains silent, his face calm, though his gaze holds something deep, hard, and incomprehensible.

“They sold it like this great holy war. Doing God’s work.” Nicky all but spits the words and his mouth pulls into a harsh sneer. “It was slaughtering innocents and defiling that holy ground with their blood. It was massacre driven by arrogance and superiority. And I partook in it.”

Joe lets him speak, lending neither accusation nor absolution to his husband’s monologue.

Keane is in the other room, though he turns to listen, caught in the story. Knowing where they are now, how did they possibly get here from _that_?

“This is where we met,” Joe says, though his words hold an unfamiliar accent.

“It is easy to joke that we killed each other, because that is what brought us together. But while he was justified in slaying the invader I was, I was not justified in _anything_ I did to him or his people.”

“What changed?” Nile asks softly.

“I did, slowly. As I saw the carnage. The destruction. The devastation we wrought. All in the name of a God I believe weeps still at our actions in His name.”

“Shit,” she breathes.

“Indeed,” says Joe.

“So while I was once a devout Catholic, I am no longer. I still believe in God, and Jesus. But long ago I chose my own path. One that follows the example Jesus laid out in the Bible, rather than the flawed watery reflection of His followers over time.” A little smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “My beliefs had to change when I, too, returned from the dead. It necessitated a change in perspective.”

“But you’d still attend Mass with me?” Nile says, more than a hint of confusion in her tone.

He smiles. Dips his head. “I would. Because I enjoy visiting the descendent of the place I once loved, and because Christmas is for family.”

“But what about the others? Their religions. Their faiths?”

“The only one of us aside from Nicky who holds to anything close to religion or faith, is Joe,” Andy points out.

“And my expression of such is much as my husband’s,” Joe interjects. “I follow the tenets of my faith, and not so much the rules.”

“It is difficult to follow the rules when your very existence seems to violate them,” Quynh pipes up.

To a man, everyone in earshot nods.

…

So while they technically celebrate Christmas, it’s more a celebration of family than anything else.

And of course there is shopping.

Soooo much shopping.

They all take turns taking Quynh out to shop for the others. She likes the lights. And buying weapons for everyone. She hates the traffic and the constant tinny music and the creepy smiling elf-people.

Quynh is very pro-Tolkien elves, and very anti-Santa’s elves.

That may have something to do that long-haired guy with the bow.

None of the immortals can bring themselves to blame her for that.

They have plenty of money from jobs and the sale of old trinkets over the years, so the sky’s the limit for what they want to get for each other.

Then again there’s more to the perfect gift than money.

They buy so many decorations.

So.

Many.

Decorations.

Quynh can’t seem to stop smiling when she sees the lights, and no one can resist her smiles.

They get three trees.

A live one for the living room, and it fills the house with the scent of pine.

An artificial one they set up in the corner of the gym downstairs.

And another little artificial tree goes in her and Andy’s room.

Each is decorated differently.

The one in the living room they hang with strings of white lights and blue and silver ornaments. In their bedroom it’s a soft golden glow and every decoration is red. The one downstairs is a riot of color and adorned in characters from movies and books and it’s a riot of chaos with every kind of tchotchke imaginable.

That one is her favourite, though she has to concede the soft golden glow is easier to sleep next to.

Miscreant apparently agrees, though over time that tree in the bedroom also begins to somehow collect a selection of ornaments from elsewhere in the house, piled up in the corner behind it.

There’s garlands over the mantle and wreaths hanging on the doors. They bake Christmas cookies and the only way Nicky is allowed to help is to decorate them with icing afterwards.

After he’s done grumbling about disobliging bakeware he pulls out his camera and documents the bedlam in images. Flour gets everywhere. The only one who doesn’t end up with a handprint on their butt by the end of it, is Nile. She glares at anyone who even considers it.

And she is _lethal_ with a dish towel. Snaps the damn thing like a whip. It should be illegal to wet the tip like that.

…

Not everything for Quynh is sunshine and roses. Nowhere close, really. She has nightmares. Except her nightmares are the worst kind. They’re not nightmares. They’re _memories_.

Andy holds her through them, stroking her hair as silent tears trail down her face.

A bit of the ocean that follows Quynh home.

The anger never entirely leaves her. It’s a flame that’s burned so long, even in the cold and the dark and the pressure. The one thing that never left. Her friend all those centuries.

They looked for her. She knows that. She saw it through Booker’s eyes, over and over and over again. But they also lived. Left her there for long stretches. Gasping for air that never came while they ate and drank and slept and fucked and—

They lived. While she died.

That fact could eat her alive and sometimes, for minutes or hours, it does.

She goes to the trees. Falls to her knees. And screams.

More often than she’d really like to think of.

Always with a distant shadow. One of them always follows. Bears witness. Waits for her to approach them, rather than intruding.

Andy just waits, when it’s her turn. Watches. Takes Quynh’s hand when it’s offered and doesn’t insult her with worthless apology.

Joe sketches, letting his fingers freeze in the effort, just to give her a memory of herself as strong and brave and capable. A reminder. She has a stack of them saved; treasured little things that offer her a piece of herself back.

Nicky waits in silence. Walks shoulder to shoulder without touching, back to the house. And then cooks her something warm and spicy.

It’s a while before one of the New Ones comes along for one of these… outings. Nile watches with tears rolling down her face and somehow these pieces of ocean don’t bite like the others. Quynh brushes them away and musters a tired smile before Nile crushes her in a hard hug.

That’s… unexpectedly nice.

Keane is the only one who doesn’t watch. He follows until she stops, then turns to stand with his feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. And does not move from that position until he hears the crunch of her footsteps in the snow approaching. Until her hand grips his shoulder. He gives her the space to fall apart, and stands guard over her without judgement. It’s oddly sweet.

Booker. Does not drink. His hand flexes by his hip repeatedly. Dips into his breast pocket. Clenches open and closed. He stomps his feet to keep warm while his breaths fog the air. Not in impatience. She knows that. Not having the warm burn against the pain is difficult for him. But he does not drown himself in the face of her pain. After so long, that feels like the grounding of a full breath. And when she is done, he shrugs out of his coat and puts it over her shoulders, letting her steal his warmth while he shivers his way back to the house.

For some reason that always has her smiling by the time they reach the warmth of the fire inside.

…

Nicky goes with Nile to Christmas Eve Mass. Nicky wears a suit and Joe teases but his face still goes sort of melty when he helps his husband with his tie. Nile wears a gorgeous wrap dress with a great pair of boots and a long puffy coat.

It’s a difficult thing for Nile, being there surrounded by the flickering of candles and familiar songs in this unfamiliar place. Knowing her mother and brother are out there mourning the first of many Christmases without her. But Nicky’s there, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and carefully kissing her temple so as not to mess up her hair.

And as they exit among the throng once Mass is over, they step through the doors and out into the cold to see Andy and Quynh and Joe and Booker and Keane… and even Miscreant, poking his head out of Booker’s jacket. All waiting at the bottom of the steps, holding warm steaming beverages with two to spare. The tears spill over at the sight but they’re only a little sad. Mostly touched. She takes the offered hot chocolate with a thankful smile and they pile back into the vehicles for the drive home.

…

Quynh and Nicky are up well before dawn the next morning. Quynh because she’s excited for presents, giving as much as receiving. Nicky because he wakes up early a lot. 

He puts the kettle on and starts a pot of coffee and he’s just turning on the lights for the tree when Quynh peers out of the hallway like a six-year-old, all wide-eyed and awed at the pile of gifts beneath the tree.

He beckons her in silently, letting her take it all in.

The rest are only granted a few more minutes’ sleep before Nicky turns on some Christmas music and opens each of the bedroom doors a crack to let the sound in.

Miscreant scampers out of Booker’s room and Nicky barely manages to snag him in time to keep him from getting a head start on unwrapping. He gently sets the protesting mustelid into his cage, petting him once before closing him in.

Keane and Booker come trailing out of Booker’s room a little bit later. Andy appears shortly thereafter.

Nicky brings a coffee into his own bedroom and emerges with a very zombielike Joe only a couple minutes after entering. Joe perks up a bit when he sees the lights, but is otherwise dead to all but his coffee as he wiggles back into the corner of the couch to watch as the others open their stockings before the main event.

Andy buys everyone tools. A nice axe. A chainsaw. Machete. Useful, well-made things. Built to last. And for Quynh, a bow.

Well. That’s the only gift she gives her in front of the rest. There are definitely some more… _private_ gifts under the tree in their room.

Quynh gets them weapons. A bow for Andy that’s strikingly similar to the one Andy got for her. They both smile at that. Knives for all the others; beautiful one of a kind hand-made knives big enough to do some real damage in a fight. Sharp enough to cut through rope or leather quickly. You never know what this lot will need a knife for.

Nicky gives them each portraits of themselves, that he’s taken over the last few months. Oddly intimate candid shots of each of them alone or with the others. He somehow manages to catch them at their truest. At their best. Each is mounted in a frame he built by hand.

Keane doesn’t run with a theme, so much as pick things he thinks each of them will like. A set of charcoals and a sketch pad for Joe. Nice cookware for Nicky. A hand-knitted long shawl for Quynh. Those boots he caught Nile eyeing. A set of leather bracers for Andy. Booker gets a jersey for his favourite football team and a set of books Keane has loved since he was still a teenager. 

Nile buys them all clothes. Nice ones, chosen carefully for each. A selection of beanies and some nice gloves for Joe. A long wrap coat for Andy. Gorgeous boots for Quynh; low-heeled and soft-lined that come all the way up to the knee. Stylish and warm. A vest for Keane to wear outside for his runs. A heavy jacket for Booker, who is always cold. Three hoodies for Nicky. She jokes that’s one for each of them. Quynh and Joe lock gazes and burst out laughing. Nile is not wrong.

Booker spends a lot of money on just a couple things, but those two things will come to be very popular. He bought two snowmobiles, and everyone is clamoring for who gets to try them out first. There’s more than enough snow on the ground to take them out today.

But Joe wins Christmas. If such a thing can be ‘won’. He gives them each sketches. Of themselves. Of things he knows they like. Of a moment in time, of laughter or chagrin or simple, sheer beauty. Stunning moments in black and grey, captured as only Joe can.

He gives Booker his gift last, and watches as one by one, he lifts out hand drawn pictures of Booker’s family. Individually: each of his sons, as they looked as adolescents. Jehanne. Jehanne and Booker. And one of the entire family together. Smiling. He looks up at Joe, utterly lost at this rare and unexpected treasure. “How—even I’d forgotten how they look,” he whispers.

“I sketched them, long ago. And use those as references to sketch them again. I have for years, knowing some day you’d want them.” That one day he’d be ready to remember, when the shards didn’t feel so cutting.

Booker all but tackles him in a hug, eyes squeezed shut against the tears. “Thank you,” he chokes out.

Keane doesn’t begrudge him his reaction. It would be awful to forget the faces of the ones you love, and not have so much as a photograph to remember. He at least has pictures of his parents and brother saved to a cloud drive. He didn’t lose that with everything else.

…

Keane’s oddly subdued throughout the day. The rest are joyful. Jovial. Content. At peace. Mostly, anyways. Nile has that edge of sadness the rest do their best to both honour and to lift. And Keane? Keane’s a little lost.

He hasn’t celebrated this holiday in almost twenty years. But oh, he used to. Back when he was a kid and they celebrated much as any English family. Or just with his brother when they would always have a tree and a few gifts, no matter how tight money was.

There’s a reason he hasn’t celebrated in so long. No reason to, with no family and no partner.

But now, unexpectedly, he has both?

And it’s a bittersweet occasion, remembering what he’s lost. What he’s learned to live without. Seeing what’s right there in front of him. Around him. A family, that’s somehow accepting him despite their inauspicious (to say the least) start.

A home, and people who care about him.

…

Miscreant has a field day once they finally release him, jumping around in the piles of paper and stealing ornaments off the tree again. Christmas is an excellent season for ferrets.

…

Christmas dinner is a thing of beauty. And far too much food. They stuff themselves, surrounded by laughter and light and contentment.

Nicky rises to his feet once the meal is done, raising a glass. The fact that the wine in said glass is non-alcoholic is immaterial. “Those of us here have a peculiar way of forming family. We are alone for a long time.” His gaze settles on Andy. “And then we are not.” Quynh smiles when he looks at her.

Booker squeezes Keane’s hand under the table.

“We do reprehensible things, and are somehow forgiven.”

If anything, he seems to be speaking of himself.

Joe reaches out to rest his hand on Nicky’s arm.

“We find each other. We rise to the occasion. And above all, we are family.” His gaze lingers on Booker. Then Nile. And finally Keane. “All of us.” He raises his glass. “To family.”

Keane can barely squeeze the words past the lump in his throat as he joins the soft, heartfelt chorus. “To family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was feeling exhausted and uninspired all week. And then I went for my first run since my injury, and actually managed to run most of a mile. So that was nice, and I feel more energized since.
> 
> Chapters might come a bit slower for the next little bit, between Christmas and the release of Cyberpunk. I fully expect that game to eat me, but this fic isn't finished and I'm not abandoning it. Updates might just come a little further apart.


	34. To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one where the sex happens. If that's not your thing, skip this chapter. It's mostly poetic talking around it and not explicit description.

Sex is not an unfamiliar concept to Booker. He’s had plenty of it, and he’d like to think it was pretty good. In any case, he had no complaints from Jehanne. And more than a few compliments.

But the world has changed in two hundred years and Booker has discovered that if sex hasn’t gotten more complicated, the way the world talks about it certainly has.

The internet is a terrifying place and there are times he seriously regrets having eyes, a brain, and/or an imagination, but he learns. 

Boy, does he ever learn.

He learns about comfort and safety and positioning and how to do certain… things. Some of which he’s not really sure he wants to do. Like, ever. But he’s willing to consider it.

And Keane already has Booker doing things he’d never considered before.

And _enjoying_ them.

Kissing turned to exploring. First with hands, over clothes. Rumpling and wrinkling carelessly as calloused palms find hard muscle and softer… places. And then the clothes start to come off. They begin to sleep skin-to-skin with only their pajama pants separating them.

They find the scars of hard lives lived before their first deaths. Bullet holes. Knife slashes. That tree Booker tried to impale himself on as a child.

The spot Keane broke his leg riding a bike.

Faint lines from an errant fist.

Thicker, ridged, from surgery.

And after their hands find these things, their mouths.

Keane’s mouth is capable of truly obscene things and that’s even before it’s been anywhere below Booker’s belt. They’re taking their time learning each other’s bodies, slowly. Enjoying the journey. Touching and tasting and teasing.

Keane won’t try anything new with Booker unless Book begs for it.

A lesson in consent, self-restraint and, well: It’s fun. Keane is enjoying holding himself back. Pushing Booker to that point of begging is far more gratifying than even he would have predicted.

He would have predicted it would be pretty damn gratifying.

Booker gets a lot of hickeys, and Keane’s polite enough to put them where they’re covered by a t-shirt. He doesn’t exactly take notes, but it doesn’t take long for Booker to reciprocate in kind.

Keane’s all he can think about.

Broad shoulders and the play of muscle beneath his shirt as he walks. Tough calloused hands, strong enough to hold him down. Hard, defined abs. An even harder ass. Thighs strong enough to hold him up, though they haven’t tested that yet. Those full lips that so easily pull into a grin and can drag a frankly fantastical array of sounds from Booker.

He thinks of those hands sliding up under his shirt. The faint brush of thumbs just over his waistband that tickles so soft and makes things not far from there turn hard. Undoing his button and gliding along skin to grip—

And then snaps out of it when a dish cloth hits the side of his face, courtesy one smirking Yusuf.

…shoulders Booker’s own hands can grip, hard and strong and the perfect anchor in the maelstrom of sensation washing through him. 

Abs tightening under the touch of Booker’s fingers and hips pushing down into his.

A mouth on his throat. His chest. His stomach. His…

They haven’t done that yet but it looms in his mind. Curiosity and hunger overriding almost everything else. The thought of the warmth and the wet enveloping him. Booker’s hand fisting in Keane’s curly hair and his hips arching up, chasing that warmth.

Keane looks at him from where he’s perched at the end of the counter and grins like he knows _exactly_ what’s going through Booker’s mind. He leans up to whisper, lips brushing Booker’s ear. “Later,” he promises. “Tonight.”

The man is as good as his word.

And orders of magnitude better than Booker’s imagination.

Seeing stars is supposed to be a cliché about getting hit in the head, but damn if it isn’t a perfect expression for what happens an almost embarrassingly short time after that mouth closes over him.

After, Keane holds him close. Booker feels him hard against his leg and reaches for Keane’s pants.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, gently pushing Book’s hand away.

“I want to,” replies Booker as he moves his hand back, down inside to where he knows Keane needs it. Or wants it, at least.

He kisses Keane hard, swallowing the sound of surprise he pulls from him.

Keane’s hands move up to grip Booker’s shoulders, gripping hard as Booker touches him, skin to skin, for the first time.

…

It’s not perfect, but real life rarely is.

But it is oddly perfect for them. Booker’s wanting and Keane’s denying him has gotten him so riled up he doesn’t think of the awkwardness anymore. He doesn’t think of how he’s never done this. Of what he doesn’t know.

He just thinks of what he wants, and takes it.

Keane somehow knew Booker would have an easier time of easing into the newness of this, if he held him back so long all he could think about was taking.

Keane is more than happy to give.

Or to take, when Booker’s ready for other things.

And eventually, Booker wants to try _everything_.

They take the physical side of things slowly, spending time at each new plateau. Experimenting. Basking in each other’s touch. In the sounds they can pull from one another. In the aftermath while sweat dries on skin and bodies mold to each other in embrace rather than demand. 

They learn what feels good, and what leaves them utterly vanquished by each other.

Bonus: those thighs can absolutely hold two people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been absent so long, and that this chapter is so short. I thought it was better to put out a short one than leave you waiting any longer.
> 
> I missed you guys though. Glad to be back.


	35. The End of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy's lack of immortality gets the better of her.

Stupid mortal bodies.

Stupid, weak, breakable mortal bodies.

First you decide to take up running, because why not? You can’t rely on your healing ability to get you by in a pinch anymore because fate’s a fickle bitch who abandons you without warning.

You wheeze along behind the others and after a while you wheeze less and you can keep up easier.

The cold becomes more tolerable. And then just less, as winter wanes to spring.

But all it takes is a stupid fucking misstep and your foot does a thing feet aren’t supposed to and you’re sprawled out in the dirt and mud and half-melted snow with a bunch of worried immortals hovering over you like they think you’re about to bleed out or some other bullshit.

…

Andy’s not even bleeding. Well, a little where she skinned one palm and one knee through her pants. But everything is still inside her skin where it belongs even if it feels like her ankle is trying to pound its way off her leg.

Fuck, this hurts.

She clutches at her shin, the closest she can grip without touching the place that actually throbs. Rocks back and forth as it courses its way up and down her leg in a nervy sort of confused agony.

She’s been hurt worse than this. So, so, _so_ many times. But every injury hurts like a bitch at first and this time she doesn’t have the luxury of knowing it’ll pass quickly.

On top of the pain is the humiliation.

That she fell in the first place.

That she’s so damned breakable. 

That the indomitable Andromache of Scythia, survivor of countless wars, famines, plagues, and life-ending injuries, has been felled by her own clumsiness. Of all the stupid, ridiculous…

Everyone’s hovering, passing glances like she can’t _see them doing it._

“I’m not geriatric. I’m not dying. I just twisted my fucking ankle. And if one more of you looks at each other like that I’m hitchhiking back home.”

Never mind that they’re in the middle of what looks very much like a forest and still on their own property. The walk to a road is probably further than the walk back home.

Nile bends down. “Mind if I take a look? I have medic training.”

Andy nods, half lost in pain. Half mentally kicking herself.

Nile looks it over, hands gentle over too-warm skin. “Looks like everything’s in place. So if you dislocated it, it’s back in place. Nothing poking out. Think you managed to not break it. Gonna need to carry you home though.”

Andy stares up at the sky, a pale impossible blue dotted with fluffy white clouds, the view mottled with leaves. Beautiful. 

Strange how the mind lingers on unimportant details when it’s struggling with pain or grief.

Anything to keep from fixating on what the body or the soul screams.

Andy’s had hundreds or thousands of moments like this, where her mind freeze-frames on the beauty or ugliness or sheer absurdity of the universe as her body knits itself back together.

Except this time, it doesn’t.

Her body or fate or the fucking universe has turned on her. Paid betrayal for betrayal in Andy’s turning her back on her purpose.

She grits her teeth around a string of beautifully inventive expletives because while she’s accustomed to pain, that doesn’t mean she _likes_ it.

“Think you can handle a piggy back ride?” says Booker.

It’s such an innocuous statement that Andy snorts out a laugh. “Sure. Why not?” Her life isn’t strange enough without having to accept _piggyback rides from Booker._

“Joe’s going to be jealous,” he says, flashing a grin.

Goddamn the man, he’s right.

Andy is not a ‘piggyback’ sort of person.

Joe most definitely is.

He’s going to regret this lost opportunity.

Well that’s what he gets for staying home with the sane(ish) people. Well, definitely sane enough not to go for a run nobody is chasing them for. She sighs.

“Alright help me up,” she demands. “Get me home where there’s drugs.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Nile says as she offers a hand. Maybe a little sarcastic at the imperiousness of their intrepid-but-wounded leader.

Andy ignores the tone and takes the help. 

Booker takes her other hand and they heave her to her feet. Well. Foot.

Keane hovers close without getting in the way. Instinctively knowing Andy would rather the other two she knows and/or trusts more, to help her.

They get her up, amidst hissing and sputtering and a few more scattered invectives. And then Keane and Nile lift her up onto Booker’s back.

The walk back seems a lot longer than the run out. Quynh’s doing target practice in the back yard as they emerge from the trail into the trees and she starts so bad she nearly misses the target.

Nearly.

The bow gets slung across her chest as she rushes over to Andy’s side. “What happened?” she says, hands hovering over her.

“I’ve gotten clumsy in my old age,” Andy growls. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s get you inside so we can get you cleaned up and take a look at it,” Nile says gently, earning herself a glare. Andy does not like being managed. Most especially when she needs it.

Booker carries her in, straight to the kitchen. Tracking mud the whole way and not giving even a single shit. He lowers her down into a chair and Joe’s already there with the first aid kit Keane and Nile put together months ago, handing it off to Nicky, who puts on gloves as he prepares to check her wounds. “How did it happen?” he asks, waving the rest away to give them space.

She turns her impressive glare on him, but Nicky’s been all but immune to that for a long time. He simply waits her out, pulling pieces out of the kit and taking a damp cloth from Joe.

Everyone except Quynh moves back to give them some space, and Joe takes control of the crowd, ordering them to get blankets and pillows and a change of clothes for Andy. It disperses the onlookers and gives Andy some space to breathe.

Keane puts the kettle on while Booker looks on anxiously from the kitchen. Not really doing anything but staying out of the way.

“This isn’t easy for you, is it?” Keane asks him quietly, standing close enough their arms touch.

Book swallows, his gaze never straying from Andy. Nods. Keane gives his arm a squeeze before leaving his side to prepare a pot of tea.

By the time Nicky’s done cleaning her skinned knee and checking over her foot, the others have made her a nest on the couch.

“Looks like a bad sprain. I don’t think you broke anything and nothing looks displaced,” Nicky repeats Nile’s earlier assessment as he lets Quynh take over and gives them the illusion of privacy as Quynh helps her out of her clothes and into some soft oversized sweats. 

Purloined sweats. Those are Joe’s. Nicky’s gaze narrows when he sees them, but he lets it go.

He’ll have to filch some for himself later.

They get some painkillers into Andy and prop up her leg on pillows on the couch. She’s ensconced in a blanket with an ice bag on her foot, dozing on the couch within an hour of being carried in.

That’s when Miscreant takes over, planting himself next to her foot on the pillow and essentially yelling at anyone aside from Quynh who tries to get close.

Even Booker.

That earns the first smile of the day from an exhausted, frustrated, afflicted Andy.

And a few scritches in thanks.

He guards over her as she dozes, trusting her little protector.

The others still hover, for hours. A little further off. But this evidence of her sheer fragility has shaken them all.

She could die so easily.

A fever or a car accident or a bump to the head or in her goddamn _sleep_. It’s incomprehensible and horrifying and something not one of them wants to have to face. Ever.

It leaves them all subdued, lost in their thoughts and the slow grief of knowing that someday you’re going to lose someone you love. It’s only a matter of time.

…

Andy feels the weight of it. Always.

It didn’t feel so heavy before they got Quynh back. 

But now that she has something. Some _one_ to live for. She can’t. Or she can, but with an end date.

It claws at her throat, a panic she can never quite suppress.

Knowing that some day she’ll leave her behind.

Abandon her.

Leave her alone to her grief and pain.

All over again.

And there’s not a _goddamn_ thing she can do to stop it.

This pain is just a reminder of what’s to come. And that’s why Andy hates it so very much.

…

She wakes alone. Or mostly so. There’s a Miscreant curled and sleeping in her lap. Her tiny guardian.

In some ways the ferret reminds her of Quynh: small and fiercely protective.

Also: very snuggly and prone to glaring.

Lecture in a Glance, those two.

In any case, there’s a warm fuzzball in her lap and she’s feeling no pain. So that’s nice.

And the others are giving her space. Even better.

Quynh’s playing a game on her phone, teeth set in her bottom lip as she focuses. Oblivious of the fact that her lover’s awake, only a few feet away.

Andy leans forward to lift the no-longer-cold ice pack off her foot and see the damage for herself, earning a reprimand from the nearly-squished ferret as he scurries off her lap and poutily settles into Quynh’s instead.

Quynh absently pats him once before returning to her level.

Andy looks down at her injured foot.

The bruising is-

Non-existent.

Andy stares at what she’s sure should be baseball-sized and blue and purple.

It’s not.

She pokes it and it feels. Normal.

Doesn’t even hurt.

She wiggles her toes. Flexes her ankle. Her face scrunches up in confusion as she stares. And then heaves to her feet, sweeping the pillows off the couch in her haste.

“Hey, take it easy,” says Nicky, rushing in to steady her. “You can’t stress it so soon.”

“Nicky _look_ ,” she says, gripping his arm hard. And then takes a step. And another. Stops. Jumps up and down twice on both feet.

And it _doesn’t hurt_.

Her luminous green-grey eyes meet Nicky’s as his go wide. He stares, scarcely able to breathe.

“Andy?” says Quynh, carefully lifting Miscreant off her lap and standing up. Her dark gaze carries the weight of impossible hope.

“Somebody get me a knife,” says Andy.

Booker and Keane get up from the kitchen table, abandoning their game of crib.

“What do you need a knife for?” Booker asks, wondering if Andy’s lost it.

“Just bring it,” Nicky replies curtly, words gone heavily accented.

Keane grabs a razor-sharp (All their knives are razor-sharp. Never know when you might need one for non-intended purposes.) paring knife out of a drawer and brings it to her, handing it over handle-first.

She pulls back a sleeve. Takes the knife. Hisses out a breath as she slices herself open with a short, shallow pull of the blade along her forearm. Just deep enough to draw blood.

The others gather around, staring. Crowding close and glancing from her seemingly-healed foot to her still-bleeding arm and back again.

And then holding their collective breath as the cut grows shallower and shallower. And heals itself, leaving pristine skin and a trickle of blood in its wake.

A sound escapes Andy’s throat and it’s maybe a sob. She takes a deep breath to steady herself. And cuts her forearm again. Deeper this time. Blood wells up, running down her arm to fall onto the hardwood floor with a tiny exploding splash. Another. Another. Little bursts of crimson on pale wood while gazes linger, rapt, elsewhere.

And then the blade falls too, from fingers gone nerveless in shock.

As the blood stops flowing and the flesh knits together, good as new.

“Andromache?”

The word shudders as dark eyes bleed clear down dusky skin. Hands quaking as they rise to cup Andy’s also-damp cheeks. 

Quynh kisses her lover hard; painfully presses their lips against their teeth because this is a moment for feeling.

Nile’s hand blindly find’s Nicky’s and Joe wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in, kissing her hairline.

Booker buries his face in Keane’s neck, stifling a broken sob of relief and guilt and sheer unadulterated joy.

Andromache the immortal is once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what you do with real-life pain?
> 
> You use it. Like I did. Andy's injury is pretty much exactly what I did to myself three months ago. Because why not?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. There won't be any more sex in this fic so if that's a thing you don't like you can read the rest without worrying about stumbling across any.
> 
> Happy Not-2020, all! I live for comments.


	36. Let Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booker and Joe make a bet. Nicky and Keane are Not Impressed.

“My beard against your hair,” Booker says.

Joe’s gaze narrows and his head cocks as he ponders what a beardless Booker would look like. He doesn’t even consider the same about his own head.

Nicky’s eyes widen. And his hand clenches. Booker may not be long for this world.

And very much the same for Joe.

“All of it?” Joe says, considering. “Like, bald?”

“Your head or my face,” Booker clarifies. “Bald.”

“So help me, Yusuf. If you lose I will not look at you for _months_ ,” Nicky snarls. Unspoken: there will also be no sex. For _months._ And Nicky is the kind of spiteful that can hold a grudge for a _very long time_.

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Good thing we’re not going to lose then,” he says as he extends his hand.

Booker clasps it. “You’ve got yourself a bet.”

Nicky wanders off, muttering to himself in Italian and gesturing with his hands.

“I have to cheer the endeavors of my love’s country,” Joe says to Keane, blinking innocently.

“Don’t look at me. Normally I’d be cheering _against_ France,” says Keane. “But being as I’m actually a little terrified as to what this man looks like without his beard, I’m going to have to cheer for them instead.” He glares at Booker. “I am a disgrace to my country and it’s all your fault.”

Booker grins. Corrupting the English is almost better than defeating them.

Keane was already a football fan, but Nicky couldn’t care less about the sport. The bet has, however, given him incentive to care.

And care, he does.

A _lot_.

Both Booker and Joe earn a mountain of scathing glares as the game progresses. Nicky is not impressed with any of this.

And whatever the result, Joe is squarely in the doghouse.

The poor Italian spends the entire game on the edge of his seat. Cheering a team that represents his country but he normally wouldn’t care enough about to even check the score.

Well. He’s on the edge when he can manage to actually sit down.

The rest of the time he’s pacing back and forth, muttering to himself in Italian, Arabic, and a dozen other languages he’s picked up over the centuries. In between monologues he gnaws at his thumbnail.

And he just about passes out from relief when Italy wins.

Then he and Keane rise to their feet, turn and glare at their respective partners almost as one, and leave the room.

Both muttering expletives to themselves, shoulder to shoulder in solidarity.

Joe grins at Booker. He’ll be forgiven soon enough, and in the meantime he gets to stare at Booker’s shiny face and silently gloat.

Worth it.

…

The shaving happens later, with an audience clustered around the bathroom door as Booker first takes a set of clippers to his face, and then pulls out the razor. 

Keane sits on the toilet lid and watches with a steadily-growing grimace as his scruffy boyfriend turns into some frat boy wet dream.

Like, he’s good looking and all, but sort of in a creepy way?

It’s just entirely _wrong._

Nicky flashes him a sympathetic look over Joe’s gloating one, from the doorway. “At least it will grow back in weeks instead of months.” He glares at Joe’s curls like they’re the cause of all this instead of the idiot brain beneath them.

While Keane has to concede his point, it does nothing to negate the fact that _Booker’s face is bald._

“I should shave as well. Out of revenge,” he mutters.

Booker’s gaze snaps to him, eyes wide. “Please don’t,” he begs.

One of Keane’s eyebrows defies gravity on the way to his hairline. “Would serve you right,” he declares.

Quynh snickers from out in the hall.

“You know what? This ‘found family’ stuff is bullshit,” Nile says, throwing her hands up in the air and leaving this fool lot to their own devices. “I’m gonna go find a new one.”

Miscreant appears to agree, scampering along at her heels.

“I promise to never bet my own hair on anything ever again,” Booker swears, even as the razor rasps its way down his cheek.

Keane glowers in response.

“Or anyone else’s,” Book quickly adds.

“It’s a start. You owe me,” grumbles Keane. “Big time.”

…

Booker’s slow crawl out of the doghouse begins later, demonstrating firsthand how his smooth cheeks feel in… _places._

And continues the next day when he asks Keane out on an actual, honest-to-goodness _date._

“Date?” says Keane, cocking his head as they laze in the late-morning sunlight, naked and lazing in bed.

“Yeah. Like, out to dinner and a movie or something?”

A smile spreads over his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah. I’d like that.”

Which is followed by the panic of Booker realising he’s never _been_ on a date. 

Courting wasn’t what it is now, two hundred years ago. And much as he loves Jehanne, what brought them together could hardly have been called ‘courting’ in the first place.

But he’s committed now, so he enlists Joe’s help later on, after he and Keane finally haul their asses out of bed.

“You’re free now right?” Joe says with a smirk as he grabs Booker by the sleeve and drags him towards the door.

“Like, now?” Booker says, digging in his heels. The idea of this is far less nerve-wracking than the reality, especially when it rushes at him like this.

“Yep. You could change your mind later. I’m doing you a favor and not giving you the chance to.”

Huh. ‘Favor’. Yeah. Joe’s obviously doing this out of the goodness of his heart and not the glee of making Booker as awkward as possible.

Nicky looks up from his book and waves. “Take pictures,” he insists. “I want blackmail material.”

Joe gets this soft melty look on his face. “I love you,” he says to his husband.

“I know,” Nicky says absently, half back in his novel already.

By the time Keane comes out of Booker’s room, Booker’s long gone with only a text of _Went to run some errands. Back before dinner. Be ready by 6!_

They are going to need to have some conversations about planning and communication. Keane sighs and goes off to check his closet for something decent to wear.

…

Joe is downright gleeful as they stroll down the street in the chill of the spring as he bodily hauls Booker into stores seemingly at random, dressing him up in everything from suits and ties, to designer jeans, to hoodies with ridiculous sayings that Booker would not be caught dead in.

“You know I do know how to shop, right?” he huffs.

“You know how to shop for other people. You’re shit at dressing yourself.”

“That’s because I don’t need to impress anyone,” Booker counters.

“Wrong,” replies Joe. “Just because you landed someone, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put some effort in once in a while to give them someone to show off.”

While Booker would very much like to argue just because it’s Joe and that’s what they do, he sort of has a point.

Joe starts gesticulating wildly with his hands as he speaks. “You somehow managed to get an attractive man to like you enough to make you scream his name—”

Booker’s face lights on fire and he actively tries to melt between the cracks in the sidewalk. “Why are you a terrible person?” he whines.

“Stop changing the subject,” Joe says imperiously. “Put some effort in to show him you care, you bumbling bald-faced oaf.”

“I’m only bald-faced because of you,” Booker reminds him.

Joe smiles, tilting his head. “Yes. I am aware of that.”

“You are terrible and Nicky deserves better,” Booker mutters.

Joe nudges him with his elbow and drags him into yet another shop. Booker lets himself be dragged a little easier this time.

For all his teasing and overall terribleness, he’s not wrong.

…

Keane does his best with what he has and his best is pretty damn good. He’s not sure what kind of restaurant Booker has planned so Keane aims for dressy-casual. Jeans and a button-down shirt with his favourite leather jacket. He’s reading at the table when the other two come in.

And just about spills his mug of coffee all over the book, himself, and his nice outfit.

Just about.

Instead he sloshes it over the table, managing to save the important things.

Booker’s attractive at his very worst. Keane has to acknowledge this. Hell, he’d throw fists if someone tried to argue otherwise.

Scruffy, hat-head, red-cheeked, in a jacket so puffy it’s hard to tell a person’s under it Booker is sexy.

Sleep-toussled, pillow-creases-across-the-cheek Booker is sexy.

Naked Booker is _super sexy._

But this?

Perhaps it’s the sheer surprise of it.

Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar shy-yet-sort-of-proud twist of Booker’s lips.

Perhaps it’s because it’s the first time Keane’s ever seen Book with his hair actually cut and styled.

But this Booker looks like he just walked off the cover of GQ magazine and it’s a _good look_ on him.

Jeans, just a little on the pale side and slim enough to hug his hips and thighs without looking painted on. His usual lace-up boots. A plain blue t-shirt that’s a perfect shade to turn his eye color piercing. And a dark grey suit jacket that outlines his shoulders in a way that should be illegal.

Keane’s not sure if he wants to parade him around the world to show him off or drag him back to the bedroom and toss those clothes on the floor. Immediately.

“My work here is done,” declares Joe, dusting his hands off and going downstairs to find Nicky. “You two have fun,” he calls over his shoulder.

Miscreant takes one look at Booker and sniffs before scampering off. Apparently you can’t please everyone.

Quynh strides in, looking each man up and down in turn. “Do better more often,” she declares before walking right past them on her way to the kettle.

Keane spares a moment to stare after her before shaking his head and rising to walk over to his boyfriend. “You look incredible. Aside from your bald chin.” He scowls at that detail and that detail alone.

“Never gonna forgive me for that, are you?”

“Nope.” But Keane kisses him anyways.

“You look good enough to eat,” Booker says when they finally come up for air, both slightly less put-together at this point.

Keane’s grin is sharp. Calculating. “Later,” he says.

Booker’s expression gives as good as it gets. “That’s a promise. Come on. I made us a reservation in town.” He offers his hand.

Keane takes it, bemused. For someone who’s never really done this, he seems a natural.

Booker, being Booker, has done his research, both online and by interviewing the others. Mostly Joe and Nile. The rest are as clueless as (or worse than) he is.

“How am I doing so far?” Book asks with a smile as he climbs behind the wheel of the Jeep.

“Just fine,” says Keane. “I’ll give you the full review after…” he licks his lips. “ _After._ ”

The reservation is for a little local place with a quiet, friendly atmosphere and a reputation for excellent food. It’s just about the perfect place for a date.

Keane hooks his foot around Booker’s ankle as they eat, and they exchange more than a few blushes and soft smiles through the meal. And a lot of innuendo. 

After all, isn’t that what dates are for?

“This was an excellent idea,” Keane says with a kiss to Booker’s cheek once they’re done and ready to go. “You’re well on your way out of the doghouse, even with the creepy bald face. Why don’t I go get the Jeep while you pay the bill?”

Booker nods. “See you outside.”

A couple minutes later Booker emerges. Keane isn’t waiting outside so he walks down the block towards where they parked.

The Jeep’s still where they left it, but there’s no sign of Keane.

At first.

The keys are on the sidewalk next to the driver’s door. The door’s hanging partway open.

He peers inside and finds no Keane. And nothing seems to be missing.

Something lurches in Booker’s chest as he looks around for some sign of what happened. Keane was only out here alone for a couple minutes.

There are three short, new scratches on the fender. And a dent in the rear door that wasn’t there this morning.

He walks a little further in the other direction, looking for something. Anything.

Next to a curb and a pair of black tire marks, is a single brown leather boot. Half of the pair Booker bought him in Paris.

But Keane is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Drake for the sensitivity read, even though I ended up cutting that part.
> 
> Sorry it took me so long to get this out. It's been a rough couple weeks and my creativity's taking a hit. I'm fine, but the things going on in the world feel like A LOT right now.
> 
> I love comments!


	37. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keane's gone. Booker calls in some help to find him.

Keane’s gotten soft. Secure. Time was, he wouldn’t walk down a street without checking his corners. But the peace and quiet of the past few months and the soft euphoria of the date have gotten to him.

He doesn’t even see them coming. The keys are in his hand and he’s unlocking the door and about to slide in—

And then everything goes black as something’s thrown over his head.

He throws his elbow and hears a satisfying crunch followed by a grunt before he takes a sharp hit to the back of the head.

Fuck. There’s at least two. Maybe three. That strike came from the other side. And they have a serious advantage.

He’s faced with a split-second choice. Fight like hell, or leave evidence.

Keane chooses both, but prioritises the latter, keys dragging with a faint shriek through the paint and into the metal. He drops them before turning to punch blindly. Missing, though not by much, based on the soft expletive that follows.

One of his assailants takes advantage of that miss, grabbing his arm and levering him around to face-plant into the side of the Jeep.

As his nose shrieks and his ears ring, he distantly hopes he dented it. More evidence.

_Booker,_ he silently prays. _Read the signs. Don’t believe the worst of me._

And then something else hits him, hard and sharp in the temple and he slumps towards the ground, caught and hauled off by rough hands.

…

The street is empty.

There are no droplets of blood.

Splashes.

Sprays.

No voice calling his name.

No sound of shattering glass or ping of bullets.

No screams no crack of bones no squeal of tires.

Nothing.

If it weren’t for the keys just laying there and the scratches on the Jeep, Booker would think Keane just skipped out on him.

But that’s not like Keane anyways. If he was leaving, he’d have told Booker. Told them all. Given them a chance to get used to it.

Keane’s not the type to just go without notice.

It’s just not him. If he was going to betray them, he’d have at least done it to their faces.

He seemed so happy. So relaxed. Just minutes ago. It was a pretty good first date, Booker thought.

Had been.

So. No sign except the burned rubber on the road, and an abandoned vehicle, complete with keys. Hardly a goddamn trail. Nothing to follow. To trace. To track.

Phone. Keane has a phone. Those can be tracked. And, you know. _Called._

Booker should have maybe done that first.

He does now. It rings and rings and rings and after the sixth goes to voicemail.

He hangs up and calls again, fingers shaking. This time it doesn’t ring at all. Straight to his inbox.

Shit. If someone took Keane, they just dumped or smashed or smashed and dumped that phone.

It’s what Booker would do.

_Merde._ What now. How can he—

Idiot. Booker drags a hand down his face and dials Copley.

Copley doesn’t answer, because of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know this number. Booker curses under his breath and texts the code that lets Copley know it’s him.

He calls again.

“Long time,” comes the familiar voice from the other end.

“Yep and I wish this was a social call but it isn’t.” Booker’s surprised his voice comes out even. 

“What do you need?” Copley sits up, fully alert and already moving to his computer.

“I need you to activate Keane’s tracker. He just went missing.”

“Missing? How?”

“We were on a date. He went to grab the car. Two minutes later the door to the vehicle’s ajar, the keys are on the ground, there’s fresh scratches in the paint, and he’s gone.”

Date. Booker just said he and Keane were on a _date_?

One day, after they get Keane back safe and sound (again) he is going to pry this story out of Book.

But until then, task at hand.

He logs in and sits down. “Okay I’m on it. Looks like he’s a couple klicks from your location, headed west. You should be able to track him yourself now. Want me to leave it active, or just have it ping at intervals?”

Booker thinks for a moment. If they leave it active and the assholes who took Keane scan him, they’ll find it. But Booker needs to find him, and can’t afford to lose precious minutes if they find it while it’s not active and they lose the trail. “Leave it on,” he says. If they can narrow down his location or direction, they can utilize other resources to find him, should it come to that. In any case, they likely won’t take his boots as quickly as they’d have taken his phone.

He hopes.

“I can contact some allies in the area if you need backup,” Copley offers.

“Call them, but keep them on stand-by. If we can get him out without adding to our visibility, we’d prefer that,” Booker replies, climbing behind the wheel of the Jeep. “I have to call the others. Keep an eye on that tracker and call me if you find anything out.”

“I will. You’ll get him back,” says Copley. 

They’d better. Booker hangs up and calls Andy.

“Date must be going pretty badly if you’re calling me,” she deadpans. The woman never did know how to say ‘hello’.

“It was great until Keane disappeared,” Booker snaps in response. His patience is non-existent and he’s about to have to retell this damn tale again.

“He ditched you?” Her tone shifts from bored to lethal in a heartbeat.

“No I think he got nabbed. The Jeep door was ajar and his keys were on the ground next to it. He came out to grab the car while I was paying and by the time I came out he was gone.”

“He’s gone? Taken?” she says, rising to her feet as resolve settles over her like a shroud.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking around the word. “I think so.” He puts the car in gear, gaze barely straying from the pinging dot on the map on his phone.

“We’ll be right there,” she says. Then her tone drops. Softens. “We’ll get him back, Book.”

He nods. Swallows. Doesn’t respond because something thick and heavy has settled in his throat and he can barely breathe around it.

“Mount up, everyone,” she shouts after hanging up. “We’re wheels up in five.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I wanted to get some momentum so I've written most of the next chapter already. Getting close to the end, but not quite there yet.
> 
> Your comments keep me going. Don't make me beg. (I will absolutely beg.)


	38. You Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immortals go looking for Keane.

Strangely enough, or perhaps not so, this is not the first time Keane’s been tied up and shoved in a trunk. 

Life in the special forces got a little strange, at times.

He wakes as they drag him out, hands tied behind his back. Feet tied together. Bag still over his head. Lucky them. If he’d woken in the trunk he might have been able to get out. There’s a knife hidden in his belt buckle and they haven’t taken his clothes.

Keane double-checks that, tapping his boots together as they hit the ground. Yep. Still on. He hopes Booker’s activated the tracker. He must be worried sick. He’s observant enough to realise Keane wouldn’t have just left without the Jeep or the keys.

Help is on the way. Or will be. Keane just needs to hang on for a while. Stall, if needs be.

His captors drag him along by his arms, feet scrabbling in the gravel on the way to… somewhere.

He slows his breath, listening. 

Distant voices. Birds chirping. Not pigeons or crows. Outside the city, then? 

The sounds of their footfalls change as they step inside a building. Concrete. Shop or garage of some sort? Maybe a warehouse?

And then he’s sat roughly into a chair and the bag’s ripped off.

Keane doesn’t bother squinting, leaving his eyes closed and letting them adjust before he opens them.

Well. The light fixture isn’t swinging over his head, but that’s pretty much the only thing that _isn’t_ cliché about this. There’s four bargain bin mooks around him, and before him? A squinty-eyed, broken-nosed bulldozer of a man puffing on a cigar.

“You know, I’d forgotten about you,” the man says with a voice like marbles over gravel.

The feeling’s mutual, though the asshole feels familiar.

He evokes more of a scent, than a recollection. Acrid. Sharp. But Keane can’t quite grasp it enough to follow it back to the memory.

And then the asshole speaks.

“All those years, I think I’d assumed you dead by now. Or hoped. And then there I was. Just eating in a restaurant with a client and I hear this name like an echo from my past.” The man looks him up and down, faint cloud of smoke clinging to his outline. And then going into a coughing fit.

Very intimidating. Keane considers trying to get out of his bonds, but he doubts even Bargain Basement Bodyguard wouldn’t notice it, and for now, he wants to know what Swedish Mob Boss wants of him.

“Keane. You don’t look much like you did back then. Skinny kid with no hair and a chip on his shoulder. You cost me years of work with that stunt you pulled.”

Oh. 

Oh, _shit._ Oh, _fuck._ This is. Not good.

Not fucking good at all.

Keane’s sitting in front of the reason he enlisted.

…

_He was twenty one. Maybe twenty two. When a friend of his from the club went missing. Mitch had had a couple run-ins with the law, even before then. Keane knew he’d been doing drugs. Mitch was good people, but he was spiralling, and Keane had no idea how to pull him out._

_Until one day he just didn’t show up at the club._

_Mitch came there every day. To work out. To spar. Just to hang out with the other regulars. To cheer on the fights and help others with their form._

_It’s where he and Keane met and bonded beating the crap out of each other. Gently._

_Or padded-ly, at least._

_Challenged each other. Had each other’s backs._

_Keane waited well into the evening that day, hoping he’d show up._

_It wasn’t like him to just not show, without calling in. And he wasn’t answering his phone._

_So after the club closed at ten in the evening, Keane marched over to Mitch’s dingy little apartment and pounded on the door, ready to drag him out of bed and sober him up._

_And found nothing. Or no Mitch, at least. Clothes and take-out boxes strewn about. Drugs still on the counter in his bathroom. No wallet. No phone. No sign of a struggle, if you knew Mitch well enough to know the place always looked like this._

_So he left on his own. But where did he go?_

_The first day Keane was concerned._

_The second, he was worried._

_By the third with no word and no return to his apartment, Keane was all but panicked._

_Then the reporter had shown up, asking some very pointed questions. The kind of questions Keane wanted answers for, himself. So they’d teamed up to find Mitch._

_He went out of his way to attract the wrong attention, and two days after meeting the intense young woman, Keane was in the ring, himself._

_Surrounded by shouting. People passing money. And across from a scary, scarred mountain of a man who seemed bound and determined to break him in two._

_Until the cops showed up and shut the place down._

_It was pure chaos and Keane didn’t even get to see Mitch until after they were questioned by police._

_He’d testified, alongside a handful of the other fighters. Mitch hadn’t. He had too many other skeletons in his closet, to risk that too._

_And then Keane talked Mitch into joining the army, right after. To give him something else to focus on. An outlet for his anger. Some discipline, hopefully. Not to mention: some protection from a lot of powerful people who might be looking for revenge, for both of them. To make sure he followed through, Keane enlisted right alongside him._

…

Keane’s a little surprised the man remembers him at all. He shouldn’t have been so much as a blip on the mobster’s radar. But perhaps he made even more of a mess of things than even he’d thought.

Or perhaps criminal types just have long memories when it comes to being fucked with.

“You seem to have landed on your feet,” Keane says calmly. What with being not dead or in jail, and all. 

And something about the smell of this place. Under the normal barn scent, feels familiar.

Blood and desperation. This asshole is back at his old shit, and Keane’s pretty sure that isn’t even slightly legal in this country. Underground fighting rings tend to get frowned upon. Mostly by insurance companies, ironically. And where goes the money, so the law.

Yay, capitalism…

“Brought me here to kill me? Out of revenge for something I did twenty years ago?” 

Oddly enough, that would solve a lot of Keane’s problems right now. Being executed and having his body dumped could save him a lot of hassle.

What has his life become.

The short, square, grey-blond man grins, showing off nicotine-stained teeth. It’s a truly awful expression.

“Why just kill you when I can make money off you first?”

Fuck. Keane was hoping he wouldn’t say that.

“And since the ‘hook’ for these little get-togethers is betting on a fight to the death, I can just let the ring do it for me.”

…

Booker drives, following that little blip on his screen. It’s moving, oddly enough, in the general direction of home. The others might beat him to Keane if it keeps going that way.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and his leg all but vibrates, knee bouncing. Booker hasn’t smoked in decades but he’s suddenly desperate for the sharp hit of nicotine and something to do with his hands.

But not the flask. Booker’s never drank on the job. And certainly not while driving. Addict or no, he’s a consummate professional.

The panic gnaws at his gut. Claws the inside of his throat. Buzzes in his brain; a stinging swarm of wasps. It’s all he can do to keep from running every red light and he hits the wheel, swearing long and inventive in his native tongue every time he’s forced to goddamn _wait_. 

While Keane. While the man he loves. Is in danger.

And what a fucking shit time for that revelation.

Months of living warm in the man’s arms and his presence, and _this, now_ is how he finds out.

He is such an idiot and he will tell Keane exactly to what degree as soon as he sets eyes on him again.

The blip turns north shortly after it clears the outskirts of the city.

There’s still this niggling thought in the back of Booker’s head, that this is just Keane’s way of getting out. Escaping. The mind does strange things when under stress. Because the evidence points very clearly at the opposite.

Plus: why go through all that trouble to fake a kidnapping, only to not ditch the tracker.

Unless he planted it as a decoy to draw them off.

Booker shakes his head violently to purge that avalanche of panic. 

Not. Helpful. 

So instead he plans. Pictures what scenario he might find when he reaches that blip. And answers the phone on the first ring without bothering to check the display.

“Are you alright?” says a female voice, and not the one he’d have expected. Soft. Clear. Concerned.

“No,” he replies, but he chokes back the vitriol. Quynh’s tone is genuine. She’s the last person who deserves to have his panic taken out on them.

“Breathe,” she says quietly. “Listen to the sound of it. In. Out. Long. Slow. You are still here. We are coming. You are not alone.”

Something twists inside him that she can say such things so calmly. After all she’d been through. And he can almost hear the unspoken truth between the words: _You are not drowning._

He follows her advice, driving on autopilot. Focusing on the things he can control, right in this moment.

“Better?” she asks.

He nods. Swallows. “Yes. Thanks.”

“We’re not far from you now,” he hears Andy say in the background. “Pull over when you can safely stop to wait for us. Nicky and Joe have weapons ready and can go with you.”

“Okay,” he says.

Waiting will be torture, but it will be good to have the steady presence of the two men. And their swords. 

Plus a plethora of guns.

A couple minutes later he stops at a roadside pullout, getting out to pace while he lets them catch up.

And maybe pukes a time or two at the side of the road as emotion overwhelms him. He does feel better after.

Except he needs a goddamn mint. Keane would harass him mercilessly, once he knew Booker was actually okay.

A lifetime and all of seven minutes later, the rest arrive. Nicky takes the wheel and Joe pushes Booker at the front passenger seat before climbing into the back. 

Right about then, the ping stops in the middle of a rural area. And doesn’t move noticeably again.

It’s all Booker can do to stop from puking again at the vast and disparate implications of that.

He just keeps breathing and lets Nicky do the driving. Joe do the talking.

Inhale.

Exhale. 

Road rolling beneath them. Trees blurred past the windows of the Jeep. 

And lets the eternities pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter's already written and I'm working on the one after that. So if you ask nicely I might post it sooner rather than later.
> 
> Comments?


	39. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is on the way. Keane just needs to hang on until it arrives. Too bad fate isn't willing to just let him sit around and wait.

Keane’s good at fighting. A little rusty nowadays, but once upon a time he was an impressive martial artist. That doesn’t just disappear over the years. Not when he’s maintained his physique and practiced with a bunch of weirdos who don’t pull their punches and will break their own bones to score a hit.

Plus there’s the whole immortality thing. He could die here, over and over and over again. He’d get back up. Every. Single. Time.

That comes with its own set of problems.

Giving away the others’ secret being the first.

The second being that they could milk his immortality to make bank if they had even half a brain cell between them.

Being able to come back from the dead after a fight to the death could make people shitpiles of money, as long as Keane was willing to die in that ring just when the right people needed him to.

So he can’t exactly let them kill him.

But who the fuck knows where they got the rest of the combatants?

Do the other fighters think this is a regular underground MMA thing? Do the people involved in this just pay people a lot of money to be willing to die? Or are the others like Keane. Brought here against their will to be pitted against each other for the entertainment of others.

In any case, he’s not willing to kill to win.

So he’d better hope the cavalry’s on its way. Because this is not going to end well, no matter which direction it takes.

…

They take his leather jacket. Assholes. He _liked_ that jacket.

Then his shirt, leaving him in just his black undershirt.

His belt goes too, leaving him without a knife. 

And his boots. It almost physically hurts, watching them take his tracking beacon away to who knows where. Not to mention those are the boots Booker bought him in Paris. He’s fond of them for more reason tan one.

No matter. Wherever his boots end up, they should be nearby enough for them to find him. Assuming it works.

This isn’t Merrick Labs. He’s not trapped and alone. The others are coming for him. He believes that. He has to.

They’re at a barn of some sort. Expensive one too. 

He doesn’t see any of the expensive thoroughbreds he’d normally expect to see in a place like this. Instead the stalls have been repurposed for cells, three or four people per, trapped inside the metal-barred rooms behind doors that are chained and padlocked shut.

Armed guards keep watch, wandering back and forth and occasionally clinking their guns against the bars as they pass. They seem to enjoy how it makes some of the prisoners flinch.

A couple of the prisoners in the other cells are veterans of this kind of fight. Heavily muscled and scarred, and while the rest have this quiet desperation about them, these two seem calm with an edge of… anticipation. The bigger one met Keane’s gaze earlier and it was downright chilling. Looked him up and down like he was a slab of meat he’d like to tear a piece off with his teeth.

Some others are like Mitch. Keane’s not sure what lured them here and he’s not asking.

The guard with the rubber bullets is a little trigger-happy, and Keane would bet the other guns aren’t loaded with non-lethal rounds.

There are others, still. The ones huddled in on themselves. Whites of their eyes showing wide. The ones that flinch at the clanking.

They’re dirty, and look to have been that way a while. Wearing torn, ill-fitting, mismatched clothes.

Homeless. They pulled homeless people off the streets like dogfighting rings steal family dogs. There to die to whet the appetites of the combatants and the audience.

It’s all Keane can do to keep from doing _something._ Anything, to save these people who didn’t ask to be here. To be discarded and used by a world that doesn’t care. That might not even miss them. To be victimised by the rich, so bored of their own existence that they need blood sport to feel something.

Assholes, the lot of them.

He vividly pictures snapping the neck of each and every one of these guards. Stealing a gun and shooting everyone responsible for this atrocity. 

But he knows better. He can’t take everyone. Not on his own. Not without putting these people around him at risk.

So he has to sit tight, and wait.

_Please hurry_ , he silently begs Booker and the rest. They need to save these, if no one else. They deserve better than to be used as fodder and discarded.

…

The smell is the same. As so many years ago. Sweat and blood and desperation.

Beneath that is different. Not the tang of nearby sewers and rusted pipes.

Beneath is the smell of the wood shavings in the stalls. The dirt of the arena. The musk of horses.

But that pervading odor he’d know anywhere. It smells like the crush of bodies and the shout of fans and the crunch of bones.

Last time he watched. Or saw. Enough to make his stomach turn before it all came crashing down and he got an injured-and-angry Mitch out.

Mostly angry with Keane, but he got over it once the story aired and he realised how close he’d come to dying.

This time, Keane’s the one in the ring.

They didn’t pit him against one of the ‘bait’. Or at least not one of the easy ones. The kid reminds him a lot of young Mitch, and that breaks his heart in more ways than one.

Kid’s almost skin and bones, but he’s fast. He’s got some training. Might have even been able to beat Keane in a fair fight. If he got lucky, that is.

This fight was never going to be fair.

On the other side of the railing, so nearby but a lifetime of privilege away, men and women stand about, chatting and sipping wine and sampling hors d’oeuvres. Dressed in long dresses with gloves past the elbow, adorned with heavy jewelry and wearing heels Keane wishes he was wearing because they’d make a damn good weapon. Men in suits and ties and shoes polished to a shine he could use to shave.

Watching and chatting and milling about like they’re at a goddamn garden party.

There’s a number four painted on Keane’s bicep and a fourteen on his opponent’s. The board on the wall shows the odds in Keane’s favor. No matter. The fact that people are going to make or lose money on this fight is entirely beside the point.

Though the fact still boils in Keane’s blood.

The kid takes a swing at him and Keane dodges away, refocusing his attention at the young man who’s probably not even old enough to drink. He’s being smart. Testing Keane. Looking for weakness instead of outright attacking. Keane decides he likes the kid. Even though behind those startlingly clear blue eyes is a piercing hatred.

Keane just hopes that’s misdirected fear and not something else. If they both survive tonight, kid’s got a lot to unpack.

Fourteen keeps testing him. Poking at his defenses almost methodically as Keane backs in a long circle, keeping away from the edge of the arena. Punches. Kicks. Leg sweeps. A lunge or two.

Keane doesn’t fight back, simply blocking or dodging everything kid throws at him. And that’s making him frustrated. He’s hitting harder. Striking quicker. Trying to force a mistake.

“Hit me, you prick!” combatant fourteen snarls, lunging wildly.

Keane sidesteps him, giving him an extra shove to send him sprawling in the dirt. Then he backs away to give him a chance to get back up.

The kid comes up spitting, hurling a handful of sand into Keane’s face.

And that’s enough to start the fight for real.

Because while Keane’s blinking away his temporary blindness, Fourteen makes his move.

Fist to the gut. Keane staggers backwards, taking a kick to the knee. Instead of taking it full-on, he lets himself go down sideways, using the momentum to roll completely over and back up onto his feet, only to meet another kick with his nose.

Ow.

Like his eyes weren’t watering enough already. 

And now Keane’s maybe a little pissed off.

Well he can stand there and take a beating or he can stretch out this fight for a while and give his people some time to get their asses in here and rescue him.

He chooses the latter, throwing a punch that the kid blocks with his forearm, wincing and cursing under his breath. Throwing a wild punch to retaliate, only barely missing.

Keane knees Fourteen in the stomach and throws him to the ground away from Keane. This time he keeps a little further back as the kid grunts his way back to his feet.

“That all you got, old man?” he wheezes. “Next time hit me for real.”

Keane only quirks a brow and rolls his shoulders.

The next few minutes is a flurry of punches and kicks as the kid gets more and more desperate. The hits he lands hurt like a bitch and Keane only fights back enough to keep from outright losing.

Until Fourteen lands a hard chop to Keane’s throat, leaving him reeling, gasping for breath. And when he closes to finish Keane off, Keane spins, kicking high and hitting the kid in the temple.

He goes flying, landing on his stomach in the dirt.

Keane stands over him, wheezing as the kid blinks slowly. Once. Twice. And then his eyes roll back into his head and he goes still.

“Finish him,” bellows a familiar voice and Keane turns to face that same squinty Swedish asshole he apparently fucked over half a lifetime ago.

Learn to move on, jackass. Like the rest of us, Keane thinks, still trying to find his breath as he stares the man down.

He’s leaning against the rail in a shiny three-piece suit, casually in control of all in his domain.

“Fuck you,” Keane replies.

“You’re not my type.” The man waves to someone Keane can’t see, and the next moment his pain explodes in his shin. He drops to his knee, fingers digging into the dirt of the arena as blood seeps down from a goddamn _gunshot wound_ in his leg. Small caliber but tell his damn leg that.

“One of you dies, here. Now. You’ve won the fight. The bets are decided. That shot was a warning,” he says, idly swirling a drink in one hand. “Whether you leave the ring alive is up to you. But decide quickly.”

Keane clearly recalls something about letting the ring kill him, spoken by said-same asshole. So even if he leaves on his own power now, he’s just going to have to come back later to fight someone bigger and faster, that time on one leg.

Wow. So much choice they’ve given him.

Clenching his jaw, Keane rises to his feet. Takes a step on his injured leg and nearly falls again as agony washes through him, sharp and nauseating.

Turns to plant himself firmly between the Swedish asshole and the unconscious kid.

He’s made his choice, and everyone in the room knows it.

Too bad nobody can tell how easy the decision it actually is. What with the impermanence of the result.

The next shot isn’t to his head. And it’s not a small-calibre pistol round.

Swede nods to someone in the crowd and a moment later a gate opens into the ring. Keane turns to face the new threat and doesn’t even get the chance to assess him before his arm and half of his chest explodes.

Keane has no idea how much time passes between that and him blinking up at the dim temporary lighting strung across the ceiling.

But he smells blood and bile and something acrid and it’s hard to breathe.

Shotgun.

They shot him with a shotgun.

And didn’t shoot to kill.

Or didn’t shoot to kill quickly.

Most of his upper arm is missing, a cursory glance tells him.

He can see his own humerus.

That’s hardly funny, he thinks distantly, and instantly knows he’s in shock.

His sense of humor’s never that bad.

It burns, and part of him can feel every single cell that’s missing.

Another part of him just knows that everything hurts.

Those parts feel intensely important and yet very, very far away.

He’s losing a lot of blood. It pounds in his ears, loud at first.

Then quieter. 

He blinks like it’s the first time.

And the last.

The light above him that seemed so dim before seems unnaturally bright now.

Voices around him are warped and hazy.

The man who shot him points the gun again and while Keane’s all but desperate to not feel this molten agony again he can’t seem to even form the word ‘no’.

And then there’s something on the man’s face.

_In_ his face?

Wasn’t there before.

Dark.

Unnatural.

And a trickle of red.

That’s new too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? I'm easily bribed by comments. Next chapter will be a while, but y'all convinced me to put this one out sooner rather than later. 
> 
> What did you think?


	40. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to rescue Keane.

“Keep driving,” Andy’s voice says over the car’s speaker as they approach a line of vehicles, seemingly waiting to get into the property where Keane’s blip stopped moving.

“You got it, Boss,” replies Nicky. “If he’s in there, how do we get in?”

“Pulling up satellite data for the area,” Booker says, whipping out his phone. Just glad to be _doing something._

Fortunately, this shouldn’t take complicated negotiations with local law enforcement or intelligence services. He just looks at google maps.

Hooray for technology.

Sometimes it fucks them. Sometimes it saves their asses. Today Booker decides he doesn’t hate the slow ponderous inevitability of progress.

Tomorrow? Who knows.

“Big property. Looks like they’re in horses. Maybe cattle too. Lot of fencing, I’d guess,” he says as he looks at the aerial image. “Couple neighbors but not that close by. Wouldn’t recommend trying that way. Wait. There’s a cutline, bout a mile up. Doesn’t look like any actual roads follow it, but our vehicles have the clearance to hopefully make it. We’d have to hike in, but I doubt they’d see us coming that way.”

“Send the image to Nile,” she says. “And get the weapons ready to go. If we have to make our way overland, we can plan as we move.”

That’s a relief. Booker doesn’t know what he’d do if they made him stand around when he could be saving Keane. His mind is trying its damnedest to not think of what could be happening to the man right now. With middling results.

That way lies madness.

Well. Right now every way lies madness, but one direction in particular at least gives him someone to take this panic out on.

They turn off the main road onto the grassy treeless avenue cut in a straight line through the otherwise densely treed area. “What’s this thing for, anyways?” asks Booker. 

“I think they’re a forest fire prevention thing,” replies Nile. “Or sometimes they’re for power lines.”

Booker’s just glad they exist. This one, in particular.

They take the bumpy non-road up the gradual incline and over a little hill, not stopping until the vehicles aren’t visible from the road behind them. Then they stop. Park. Load up their weapons, and duck through the fence that runs along one side of the grass.

Andy sets a hand on Booker’s shoulder. “Almost there,” she says. “We’ll get him back.”

Booker nods, checks his gun, and heads through the trees behind her.

…

They make their way, silently. Planning’s all good and fine, but until they see what they’re up against, what’s the point in talking? 

Moving in two parallel lines, their guns are at the ready and pointed low. The trees make for excellent cover, though they snag at their clothes and make for a tripping hazard in the growing darkness.

Booker’s nice outfit gets sort of ruined, though he doesn’t notice. Clothes are replaceable. Keane’s not.

There’s only a pale outline of light in the west by the time the trees open up abruptly to grassy field, and they find themselves staring across the pastures to a cluster of vehicles around a long building that’s lit from within.

Other buildings are visible, but distant, and unlit. If there’s something going on, it’s right there in the big low horse barn-slash-riding arena.

There’s a few people milling around the cars, but the line they saw earlier must have cleared. All the cars are parked and unmoving in the space around one end of the barn. A man who is very obviously a guard stands outside the main door to the barn in a suit and a typical ‘I’m trying to look intimidating without moving’ stance. But no one seems to be patrolling. “Guess most of the security’s on the driveway and inside,” Joe says.

Andy nods to the non-guards who are standing in the halo of light from the door. “Careful. Those people are dressed for a party, not a fight.” Which means most are civilians. Likely unarmed. Or hopefully so. “Anyone who has a gun is fair game to put down. Stick to non-lethal takedowns for any others who get aggressive. But we get in and get out as quietly as possible. We don’t want to spook them into turning this into a massacre.”

They’re still not entirely sure what they’re up against. Why Keane would be here, where he’s not quite dressed for the event, and kidnapping seems like an odd course to serve up at an equestrian facility.

Or maybe not. Horse racing means money. And rich people can be unpredictable in the most disturbing of ways.

“We need to get a view of things on the inside of that building,” says Andy.

“I’ll go,” Quynh replies. There’s a line of windows high up that run the full length of the barn. “I can climb better than you can.”

Andy nods. “I’ll cover you. The rest of you, stay low and be ready to move.”

The two women shift as furtive shadows across the open area between the trees and the fence line while the rest hold position. They’ll wait for Quynh and Andy to make it to the cars before they try to follow. No point in attracting attention if they don’t have to.

They reach the cars. Duck down behind them and move carefully, keeping the partygoers in their periphery as they make their way to the other end of the barn. Added bonus of them standing in the light: they can’t see a damn thing beyond it. They might as well be invisible.

Andy boosts Quynh up on her back and the smaller woman scrambles her way up to the narrow window, peering inside.

She’s only up there for a minute or so before she jumps down to have a hushed conversation in the shadow of the building.

Meanwhile the rest start to make their way in. Guns at the ready and keeping low while Nicky keeps the women in view, watching for Andy’s signal.

She waves them in to where they all huddle behind another vehicle. “They have people. In cells. Cages,” she says. “Armed guards, but not many.”

“Can we take them by surprise? Do it quietly?” Nile asks.

“Perhaps,” says Andy. They still don’t know what’s in the half of the building with all the partiers.

“Some of the prisoners might alert other guards,” says Quynh. “Most of the prisoners are men. The big ones are battle-scarred.”

“Fighting ring?” says Joe.

Quynh nods. Those have been around for millennia. The combatants have a look about them. It’s a good bet.

“Is Keane with them?” asks Book, tapping a staccato, irregular beat on his thigh and the side of his pistol with his fingertips.

“I did not see him,” says Quynh.

“So if there’s fighting, he might be in the ring right now,” says Nicky, considering.

“We need to see where everyone is,” says Booker.

“And we need to get those prisoners out,” says Andy. “Me and Quynh and Nile will get the prisoners. You guys get intel on the rest and try to keep a low profile. Shooting rich people is frowned upon, generally.”

Yay, capitalism. 

“Pity,” pouts Joe. Those are the most fun to shoot.

Andy pulls out her phone, speaking in the same hushed tone. “Copley. Please inform local law enforcement that you heard shots fired at this location. Make it serious enough to warrant a lot of police. There are some here who are armed. They’re kidnapping people.”

“You got it. I take it the shots will be yours?” 

“The first ones will be.”

She hangs up.

“Alright let’s go. We’re on a timetable now. Need to get out before the police arrive,” she says.

The women head around the back of the building while the men move further along the wall towards the lit entrance at the opposite end.

And then a beam of light appears out of nowhere from almost right next to them as someone dodges out a side door, stumbling past them while somehow missing their presence entirely.

The suit-clad man steps through the first line of cars, stopping next to the second…

It looks like he’s taking a piss.

The three men duck inside after a quick glance to see there’s no guard by the door.

It’s dark. Or dim. The main lighting in the barn is turned off, replaced by mood lighting over the fighting ring, and strings of tiny Christmas lights around where the overdressed spectators stand on the other end of the long open room.

It’s usually a riding arena, by the looks of things.

And yeah. That’s Keane in the ring.

It’s all Booker can do to keep from shouting to him.

And then he does. Because one second Keane’s rising to his feet, defiantly saying something to this arrogant douchebag standing with the rich fucks. And the next he’s missing most of his arm and part of his chest.

And the man who shot him has a bullet in his forehead.

Booker blinks down at his pistol.

He’d never even decided to shoot. But the bullet’s out of the gun now and Joe and Nicky go into damage control mode, taking out anyone who raises a weapon while the rich people slowly seem to catch up to the fact that their party has been crashed by armed assailants.

It’s easy to pick out the people with the guns at that point. They’re the ones not shrieking and running away.

Keane’s kidnapper dies in a pool of blood-soaked sand, felled to a bullet fired by Nicky as just one more person in their way.

Booker’s lucky the other two men are paying attention as he runs out into the middle of the ring, heedless of danger or bullets or anything but Keane, badly wounded and bleeding out.

…

The man with the shotgun slowly crumples, seemingly surprised his body’s stopped working. His gun slides out of nerveless fingers, landing harmlessly before he collapses onto his face.

Already dead.

Huh. Keane didn’t see that coming either. Should he have, maybe?

And then there’s a face above his.

“Book?” he croaks out.

“Yeah. I’m here,” says the one voice in the world he really wants to hear.

“Kid okay?”

Kid? What kid. Booker looks around. Sees a scrawny unconscious guy. “He’s breathing,” he says.

Keane’s eyes drift closed. “Good. Do me a favour and just let me die for a bit?”

Booker would very much _not_ like to do that. “Okay,” he says. “See you in a few minutes.”

Keane nods, exhaling slowly.

He doesn’t inhale again.

And misses the way tears trail down Booker’s cheeks, catching and dripping off his hideous bald chin.

Booker swipes at them with his forearm before taking a quick glance around to make sure there’s no immediate threats. 

A bit late, that. But Joe and Nicky seem to have the situation well in-hand.

And then he puts an arm around Keane’s shoulders. Another under his knees. Ignoring how much blood and gore he’s about to get on him, heaves to his feet and starts walking his burden to the back of the barn where the prisoners are being kept.

Keane’s not exactly light, but Booker manages.

Andy meets him at the back gate to the ring, swinging it back and out of his way. “He alright?” she says.

Of course he’s not alright. He’s dead.

“He will be. The prisoners?” 

“Secure. Safe. Guards are down back there. It’s clear.”

“Good.” He nods to the unconscious kid. “Think he’s one of them. Make sure he’s alright?”

“You got it.” She pats his arm and goes to join the boys.

Nile and Quynh have released the prisoners. Or most of them. There’s a couple mean-looking ones staring daggers at Nile, who’s tapping her finger on the guard of her assault rifle like she’d very much like to shoot them. They’re still in the stalls, doors chained and padlocked shut.

The rest are milling about, looking terrified. Quynh’s checking them for injuries and trying to keep them calm, even as Andy carries the kid in and lays him down in the aisle.

Booker nods to each of the other immortals as he steps past and leaves out the back door. Best no one sees Keane healing, so he doesn’t stop. He continues on once they’re outside, using the chaos and the dark as a cover as he makes his way to the fence line and sets Keane down.

He’s still dead, but healing. Better that way, Booker tells himself, even as he tries not to panic. It’s gonna hurt when he wakes. Best put that off as long as possible. Book scales the fence before reaching through to drag Keane’s still form under the rails.

That’s about when Keane wakes up, sucking in lungful after lungful of air. Scrabbling his hands in the grass as he arches up under the pain of rebuilding himself.

“Welcome back,” Booker says, reaching for Keane’s hand.

Keane grips it, hard. Lets it ground him. “Hey,” he grinds out.

“Hey.” Book raises his free hand to wipe sweat from Keane’s forehead. “Thought you could escape me that easily, huh?”

“Well the date was going terrible. I had to get out somehow,” Keane quips through gritted teeth.

Booker chuckles softly, ignoring the moisture that just sprang to his eyes anew. And kisses him.

Keane leans into the touch for just a moment before wrenching away to gasp for air under a fresh wave of pain.

“This part ever get easier?” he says when it’s abated a little.

“Nope. Not at all. And watching it sucks, every time.”

“Fuck.”

Yeah, that about sums it up.

“Hey, you know what?” Booker asks.

“What?”

“I love you.”

A slow smile spreads over Keane’s face, only a little pained. “Actually, yeah. I did know that.”

Booker stares at him, incredulous.

“Did you just ‘I know’ me?”

Keane laughs. Then winces, because: _ow_. “Kinda did. But I did. I’ve known how you felt for a while. For the record: I’ve known _I’ve_ loved you since right before you broke up with me.”

“Oh,” Booker replies uselessly.

“But yeah. I love you too, you jackass. Next time don’t wait to say it until after you nearly lose a person.”

“Okay but there’s not going to _be_ a next time.”

“Oh?”

Booker shakes his head. “You’re it for me. I don’t want anyone else.”

Now Keane’s smile turns incandescent. “Good.” He drags Booker back down for another kiss.

“Jesus Christ, you two,” huffs Andy as she jogs up to where the two men are necking in the grass, surrounded by horse manure. “Get a room, and _after_ we’ve escaped.”

“What she said,” adds Quynh.

“Says the two women who were alive when Jesus walked the earth,” Booker fires back, helping Keane first to sitting, then to his feet.

“Can you walk?” Andy asks him. Keane nods.

“Yeah and we’re still alive so who’s God now?” Andy counters.

Well. She has a point.

Joe snickers as he passes and Nile just gives the lot of them a thorough dressing-down with her gaze. “I found your boots and your jacket, though I’m currently regretting that decision,” she mutters.

Keane grins at her and she helps him get his boots on. He’s technically not one of the blasphemers in this particular instance.

And then they’re on the move. Andy and Quynh take the lead while Nile and Joe bring up the rear. Nicky stays close to Booker and Keane, ready to steady the latter if he falters.

They hear approaching sirens just as they disappear into the trees.

“The prisoners?” Booker asks. 

“We made sure they were alright and told them help was on the way. Gave a couple of them the guard’s guns, just in case,” says Nile.

The rest of the journey back to the cars is silent save for the sounds of footfalls and labored breathing.

The women get in the other SUV while the men climb into the Jeep. Nicky takes the wheel while Joe takes the position of shotgun seriously, keeping a gun in hand, held down by his thigh. Booker helps Keane into the back and then climbs in after him.

A little maneuvering gets Keane laying down with his head in Booker’s lap. Booker strokes his hair gently as they bounce down the cut line.

The fingers feel nice, though the bouncing does _not_.

Joe looks over his shoulder to the two men, and Keane in particular. “I don’t like seeing you in pain and I’m not sure I will ever forgive you for that.”

Keane snorts out a laugh. “That mean my brains are safe from your wrath?”

Joe mutters something under his breath. “Fine,” he finally says. “Yes.”

For some reason that one word feels almost as good as the three new ones he just got from Booker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This has been a helluva trip. Thank you all for taking this odd journey with me. When I decided to raise a bad guy from the dead and earn him some redemption along with forcing Booker to do some atonement, I didn't think anyone but Drake would read it. Boy, did you all prove me wrong.
> 
> This is it. The end. Or the end of how this particular part of the story plays out. I might do some one-shots sometime in the future, set in this particular established canon. If I do, I'll add them as chapters here. So if you're subscribed to the fic, you'll know if I add anything. If I was to add anything, they would be entirely complete, self-contained stories. So even if this fic continues, from this point out it will always be complete. No more cliffhangers.
> 
> I don't have any particular one-shots planned, but feel free to leave prompts in the comments. No guarantees I'll actually write them, but if they fire my imagination you'll see them here later.
> 
> Once again, thank you all so much for reading, giving kudos, and commenting. You've driven this strange fic right from the beginning and given me motivation to keep going. You guys are the best. ♥♥♥


End file.
